What Lies Beyond the Point of No Return
by LadyOfTheCelticLand
Summary: *Redone from a few years ago* Music is the pulse of life, giving voice to the dark and violent passions beating in our breasts. Erik has sung his song, but Christine hasn't finished hers. Will the finale radiate glory or mourn destroyed hope?  Explicit
1. Prelude

What Lies Beyond the Point of No Return: A Phantom of the Opera Phanfiction

*re-loaded from a few years ago!*

Characters & history aren't mine, but the content is! ©2011!

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><p>Chapter 1: Prelude<p>

I, Christine, scurried off the stage. My beautiful lavender dress, as fragile as butterfly wings, whispered around my legs as I stepped across that wobbly board. As the other players continued their rehearsal, I saw the stage hand push past me. The board beneath him shook. "Someone should fix that," I told him.

He instantly bristled, turning to give the sharp edge of his tongue to whomever had deigned to criticize his sets. When he saw it was me, though, some of the tension left his jaw. He had always been more polite to me than he had to the others. I had, you see, never played on his sets as a little girl, nor did I amuse myself among the ropes that restrained the heavy curtains of the stage. Many of the ballerinas had so entangled themselves and were extricated amongst much bellowing on the part of the stage manager. I had given him no reason to be irritated by me; thus, he endured me. "I suppose they wouldn't be too happy if someone fell, now would they?" he said with obviously forced joviality. "I'll repair it right now." He waved a hand to his crew; they hurried forward armed with nails, hammers, and a large plank.

"Christine…." that velvet-soft voice whispered in my ear. Just the sound of it made a shiver leap throughout my core. "Christine…come to me…"

Meg, swathed in yards of rose tulle, saw me and grasped my hand. "You'll do wonderfully at the show tomorrow!" She had barely thirty seconds before she was expected onstage. I nevertheless had every confidence that she wouldn't miss her cue. She always managed to be on time, despite perpetual absentmindedness. Her mother and I were alike convinced that God had dealt her the gift unfairly.

Distracted now, myself, I gave her a quick smile and looked for the nearest staircase. "Thank you, Meg. But now, I must go to my room. I left something behind." I had become rather skilled at lying. No one suspected me, me with my innocent face.

"All right. See you tomorrow afternoon!"

Freed, I fairly leapt up the steps in my haste. The room at the end of the staircase didn't belong to me. It belonged to the Phantom. With cold, blue eyes like baleful chips of sky and dark, shoulder-length hair, he was beautiful. The others, they whispered to me that he was a monster beneath the mask he wore. I knew the truth. He had laughed about it to me, when I had caught a secretive glimpse of him one night when the mask was off. He had caught me, needless to say. He had told me that he preferred that the other ballerinas think him repulsive, for then they wouldn't seek him out for romantic overtures.

Little did he know, I sought him out as much for those romantic overtures as for his teaching.

I paused at the worn door to the old tower room. No one had been here but me and the Phantom. They would just think the room was for storage. How wrong they would be, for inside, it was a clean, neat room with a small bed, a decent chest of clothes, a mirror, and a desk for writing music. Chiffon curtains billowed inside the room, swelling with the frigid night sky. I shut the door behind me and caught my breath at the sight before me.

The moon was shining through the window with an eerie promise. He wasn't here yet, but he would be soon. He had promised me. I chilled; the autumn night made the hairs on my arms shiver. Inside the chest of garments, I knew, was a warm flannel house coat and a lovely nightgown. The Phantom let me sleep in this room the night before my performances, away from the giggling cavorting of my old dance-mates. He would tuck me in, as he did when I was a child, and lay on top of the blankets. There was a layer of soft sheets between us, but his heat warmed me more than they did. His presence was comforting when I was a child…now, my heart would beat just a little faster as he laid himself down beside me.

But then, it would calm, for his cruel eyes would soften as he gazed at me and croon me to sleep with a lullaby he had composed for me. He was a great teacher of the voice, and his own was so extraordinary it was a wonder he did not have an alternate persona who sang in the opera. It was gentle and smooth, a masculine flute of honey to my ears. I would wake with his arm flung over me, almost – but not quite – pulling me in as if I was his possession.

Smiling at what would be my evening, I stripped off the gown and laid it over the foot of the bed. He would put it in a safe place after we finished our own quick dress rehearsal.

Horror of horrors! I heard a noise at the window, and knew him to be entering. My body instantly flushed and cooled with my embarrassment at wearing only my chemise. Quickly, as soon as he stepped into the room, I darted behind him and put my hands over his eyes. He usually did a preliminary scan of the room, an old habit from darker days when such things were necessary. Ah, I see from your face, listener, that you assume I know more than I reveal! Do not be so foolish; my teacher never revealed aught to me that would make me unhappy. Such morsels of information as I have gathered, I have done without his blessing. Yet, even in the matters of his own past, my efforts have been fruitless.

Without uttering a cry of surprise, his instincts made him seize my hands and twist them away, almost snapping them from my delicate wrists. "Stop!" I cried. My toes nearly gave out my precarious hold over his visage from fear. "It's just me."

"Christine. Are you all right? Unhand me!"

"Heavens, no!" I twisted around in front of him slightly, letting my fingers separate to let him see my face, then I resealed them. "You came at a most inopportune time! I am…not decent."

A slow, lazy smirk spread his mouth, and my stomach seemed to leap into my chest. "Very well," he drawled, "I shall not gaze upon your innocence." He turned away, and with a jerk of his head, unleashed my hands from his face. Before I could protest, he deliberately closed his eyes and lay upon his back. The smirk was already sweetening into a gentle smile. "It is wonderful to have such a ….student…as you, a young lady, who still finds such excitement in the idea of her revelation." His words had a double meaning that made my spine tremble again. I told myself it was mostly the coldness of the breeze, in whose breaths I was directly standing.

I didn't tarry to see how long his benevolence would last; I dashed to the open clothes-chest and withdrew the rustling nightclothes. It was strange, dressing before him. One could have almost thought he was slumbering, so unconcerned did he appear, but I knew otherwise. "I'm done," I said in a voice that barely shook.

Immediately his eyes opened and he smiled at me, the cool white of his mask contrasting with his dark clothing. He rose from the bed as effortlessly as a specter. I turned away from him, fiddling with the ties of my robe. "What do you wish for me to study tonight, my teacher?"

"Not to study, but to discover, tonight, my dear," he whispered. He had come up behind me and his hands trickled themselves over my shoulders, a warm prickle of heat. They slid down my arms to my white bodice, and they splayed themselves over my hipbones like a harpist rests her hands upon the soundboard of her instrument. Stars…like a harpist…

"I wish to give you a different type of music."

"One that will resound within me?" I asked in an attempt at lightheartedness.

But I could almost see him smile, though he wasn't within my view. "Exactly." Then, he began to sing. I instantly knew from the timbre of his mellifluous tenor voice that it was a love ballad. "Night-time sharpens, heightens each sensation. Darkness stirs and wakes imagination. Silently the senses abandon their senses…" He paused, as though giving me the opportunity to flee. Why he offered it, I had no idea. Could he perhaps be implying a purpose deeper than instruction by singing this ballad? After a moment, he continued to sing.

To speak honestly, I was becoming lightheaded from his voice. If his lyrics were penned, readers might scoff at my reaction. I would not hold it against them. There was an inexplicable quality about his voice, a force that was impossible to resist, that could not be conveyed through ink. A reader would be sheltered from it; I, however, was subjected to its complete and vast influence. How can one stand in an ocean current and not give way to its tug? Likewise, how could the female heart prevail against his voice? This was not a rehearsal, a lesson, or a demonstration, my all too-willing heart was insisting to my weakening intelligence. It was courtship and seduction!

With this hope, heat and cold raced in my veins. Could it be? Could the Phantom be offering me my darkest, most secret dreams?

He was going to kiss me soon, my heart decided. He must, for how could he say such words to a woman and not act upon the desire they provoked? Oh, my teacher was going to kiss me… Did I want him to? Dared I surrender myself to this dark angel, this man, this Phantom? He had terrorized, he had passion worthy of murder, he had music burning within him that would create life within the throes of ecstasy.

Dared I take the chance of being his? It would not be an easy life, for he had told me that he was hated by society as much as I was loved. He had told me that he had scars from their whips as much as my cheeks were raw with their kisses. Could we exist together in happiness?

"Softly, deftly, music shall surround you," my Angel of Music continued. "Feel it, hear it, secretly possess you…" His arms surrounded me in much the same way, his voice melting every reservation I had about him. The roughness of cloak rubbed against my bare arms, warm scratching. The edges whispered over the round curve of my shoulders, and I sighed as a woman sighed in the arms of her lover.

To be his, to be claimed as his…to never have another woman clutch at him. To wipe his tears, bear his anger, to have his love of me proclaimed to the world in his shouts of pleasure. O, sweet prospect…

As if reading the nature of my thoughts, his voice became deeper, more suave. It glided over me like the sheer wedding-night gown of Cleopatra. The low vibrations made my eyes fall shut in bliss. "Floating, falling, sweet intoxication," he crooned. "Touch me, trust me, savor each sensation." Oh, bold! I thought. Is there any doubt of his intentions?

His hand pulled mine to his face. I felt the soft warmth of his cheek, the moisture of his tears testifying to the depth of his emotion. His lips were soft and wet – and hot. I turned to him, ready to meet his mouth with mine and end this torturous teasing.

With a wicked grin, though, he reined in his passion and swept away from me, only his gloved fingers retaining contact with my hand. "Let the dream begin, let your darker side give in to the power of the music that I write –"

I confess, dear listener, I was falling into him, a sweet desperation filling me to belong to this black mastermind. Was I naïve and thoughtless? I challenge you to do better!

He finished, murmuring quietly, "The power of the music of the night."

Yes, I give in, I told him within my mind. I'll sing your music in your name…I shall fashion it into melodies that will make the angels weep for the terrible beauty of your wrath and my echoing whispers in the snow.

He was favoring me with an unfathomable look, an indistinguishable blend of emotions. I did not know what to say. I was shaking noticeably. What explanation could I give? "My…my lord?"

"Yes, Christine," he murmured, "I am your lord. And," he said, sudden mischief in his whispering voice, "you will be my lady." He pulled me back to him. Ah, cruel man, to tease a woman so! At his words, my head fell back onto his shoulder in helpless appreciation, my breath hitching and coming in gasps. "You do not find my words repulsive, I gather," he murmured as his gloved hand trailed up my throat. The leather was cool and slick and soft, an aphrodisiac to the hot textured embroidery of my nightgown against my body.

"Why do you do this?" I asked faintly. "What is your purpose?"

He answered only the first query. "Do you object?" His arms hesitantly – hesitantly, still! – crossed over my chest, letting their weight press me close. A sound of pleasure, foreign to me until now, rose from my mouth, and I could feel him start. He began to unknot his arms, perhaps thinking my response from fear. Was he for once unsure of himself?

Boldly, surprising myself, I reached up and held his arms in place. They were lean without being scrawny, powerful without being bulky. I could feel the rippling of his muscles as he flexed his fingers over my upper arms. "I surmise you enjoyed that?" he drawled.

I flushed. This was unladylike. If my father were alive to know that my teacher and I were standing in such an embrace in a room without chaperons – at my age, and in my dress – he would most likely faint. But at the sensation of his breath coming slightly faster in my ear, I decided I didn't care.

"My teacher –"

"Erik."

"What?"

"My name is Erik."

I looked shyly up at him. "….Erik….does this mean you return my regard?"

" 'Regard.' Regarder. To look, as our people would say. My student, _my _Christine, my eyes have looked fondly towards you in the shadows since you were a child. But only recently have they noticed your attraction towards me."

Made uncertain by his evading answers and vague accusation, I tried to pull away, but his arms only pressed me closer against his chest. Lower, more slowly now, "My Christine…Long have you regarded me as a father, but, neither nature nor our own hearts can deny that I am not your father, nor indeed am I any part of your family. This icy heart now melts in your gaze as no relative's could, and this…." he paused, "….soul….desires your affection as none of your blood would." He released me then, and spun me around to meet his eyes. Blue like ice-covered lakes sometimes, but now liquefied summer sky, they revealed tender fear. "Do you understand me?"

"My teach-…Erik, I understand…and reciprocate."

My response had lit his eyes so that they reminded me of the snow that blankets the streetlights. "Darling girl …I must ask you an important question."

"Anything, Erik." His name now fell easily from my lips.

"Imagine," he said, now releasing me and striding about the room as if it was too confining, "imagine – that you have carefully crafted the solo for your performance tomorrow. Then, that afternoon, the caretakers of my establishment" (his lip curled in derisive contempt) "give you the opportunity to pass your solo to Carlotta. Would you?"

At the thought, I could feel my mouth twisting into a snarl, my shoulders hunching inwards as if to protect the orb of music hovering in my chest. "Never. It's mine to protect. I've made it my own, left my own mark on it – give it up! How could I?"

"And, why would you love this solo so?"

"It is part of who I am. You – you know the feeling of being taken by music." My expression became glazed with bliss. "Floating on a gentle sea, swept in the depths of passion…" I stumbled then, and was silent. How could I explain to this male, teacher though he was, that when I was in music, it took me within its embrace like a lover? How could I explain the shivers that raced down my arms like his long fingers when my voice merged and throbbed with the orchestra?

It didn't need to be said. I could see that much. His eyes glittered with satisfaction and pride at what he had fashioned me to think. "Christine…you are my music, my solo."

At his words, my protective stance melted, and my legs became weak with his meaning. "You – you-"

"Let me make it plainer. If you want me in this manner, I shall never yield you to another."

My limbs yearned to make me spin in gladness for his words. But, I held them still. "Then, Erik," I said, looking upon his dark beauty and knowing the terrible and wonderful rich desires that drove him, but not caring that I didn't comprehend to what I was sealing myself. "Then, declare to the world that I am your solo, and," I blushed, "make music of me." I started to burn as hot as the smoldering fire in his ice-eyes.

He was across the room in a moment, a black vampire of myth, forbidden and awesome. His legacy and menace, his lethal malice, was written in every potential movement of his body. His lips were on my unblemished throat. "Sing," he commanded, and ran his cold fingertips down my vibrating neck. I heard music in my mind, dually dancing with his hands to claim my attention. His arms clasped my waist to his, and he bent me over backwards as his voice whispered dark and seductive things in my ears.

My voice was nearly unacceptably breathy, the tune of his lullaby coming in gasps. Hit that note, crescendo there, diminuendo – it was strange, concentrating on that tune while his wonderful mouth did malevolent things upon the skin of my neck. I grasped onto his dark cascades of hair to keep from fainting. He filled the holes of my song with his own voice, mouth descending on the soft swell of my shoulder. I sang of him, of how my heart joined to his when our bodies yet could not. I told him, in a voice shimmering of tears and joy, how nervous and strange I felt the first time I saw him. My angel was real, he was a man, he was breathtakingly beautiful, he was tortured in black. He had led me down hallways forbidden to young innocent girls, looking more like a demon than an angel. But, an angel he was; he was my teacher. He was immortal, he had put his spirit inside me, he was –

"Oh!" I gasped, the music abruptly cut off, and he chuckled cruelly against my skin.

"Erik," I pleaded, "I don't need a wedding. Let us declare ourselves as couples eloping, and – and –"

"Not now, my angel," he said regretfully, straightening. "I will not have it said that I stole the solo. I will…earn it," he promised with a crystalline glint. "And when I take it…I shall own it fully."

I was panting for him, and pressed myself wantonly against the untiring body before me. "I want to be yours _now!"_ I sobbed. "I want to be one with you!"

Gripping my arms tightly, he shook me. "Do not tempt me more than your beauty and voice already are. Tomorrow, after performance, my love, I will claim you." His voice was at once both the rough growl of a hungry cat and the curl of a master's rapier, still yet the dangerous hiss of a snake. He would come upon me and leave no portion of me unclaimed. A worthy compensation.

"At least, then, kiss me." He did, and I kissed him back. He had to flee the room, leaving me confused and laying breathless on his bed.

Stars, I had sworn myself to an honorable devil!

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><p>Surprised? Have some unanswered questions? I'll bet! Don't worry - all will be explained, and this is JUST the beginning!<p>

Please review!


	2. Deceptive Cadence

Characters & history aren't mine, but the content is! ©2011!

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><p>Chapter 2: Deceptive Cadence<p>

My heartbeats were quicker than usual as I stood upon the stage, waiting for my cue. Would I make him proud of me this night? I wondered. I heard my cue and stepped out onto the boards. I began to sing, driving him from my mind in order to concentrate on making the notes full and lovely.

My aria ended, and I waited for my partner to enter the stage. I heard slight whispering behind me as the orchestra music concluded, and I saw – Oh, sweet stars, I saw Erik deftly passing a wad of money into my partner's hands and come onto the stage himself – without the mask. He looked like any other man, though much more handsome in my eyes. He began to sing, better than I had ever heard him before. Or perhaps it was just my blossoming admiration. In any case, the audience heard the emotion and depth of his voice and loved it just as I did.

We combined our voices, my sweetness and his passion, in a melodic vibrating harmony of sound. Like two ribbons fluttering, entangled, in the wind, we fulfilled our roles within the opera as well as in our own hearts. I scarcely noticed as the scenes flew by, feasting my eyes upon him and likely awing our audience with our "acted" affection.

At the finish of the last act, as I lay quietly in his arms, "dead," the audience roared its applause. Erik raised me up and we both showed our appreciation in our bows and curtsies. After the suitable amount of time, I turned to leave, but Erik grasped my wrist and held me to him. As the audience stilled to see why we had not exited the stage, his natural voice boomed over them. I could have fainted for the sound of mastery within. "Ladies and gentlemen, just as you have seen Violetta die this night, so do you see Christine Daäe leave the world of the unclaimed maidens, for yesterday, she consented to become my wife. Because of…present circumstances, we regret to inform you that we will be unable to marry publicly; so, mark this as our announcement."

The crowd began to murmur, shock and curiosity threading through their tones as they hastily checked their programs to review the name of my partner and realized that he was not the man standing beside me. I heard a whisper offstage, probably from one of the dancing girls. "Another scandal! Can't Miss Daäe be content to be great? Does she also have to have two men claim her on stage as well?"

A man hushed her, muttering, "We signed a contract never to speak of that! You could shatter her mind if she heard you." Two men? I echoed in my thoughts. I had a quick mental flash of a red and black scene, flickering with fire, a warm masculine body – but then it disappeared. Was this a premonition?

My head began to ache.

"Ms. Daäe's partner has most kindly consented to let me introduce myself in his stead: I am Erik, and you shall see more of me as my wife continues to perform. Ladies and gentlemen, Christine Daäe." At the growing volume of the crowd ("What is his last name? Why haven't we heard him before this?" "There's a curious resemblance to _his _voice, don't you think? What will the Phantom have to think of another claiming his prodigy?"), he turned to bow to me, and as he did so, he vanished. I gasped and ran off stage to find him.

I was mobbed by my well-meaning friends and by the patron, but ran away from them. "Where is Erik?" I sobbed. "Where is he? Let me go!" I broke away from them and stumbled away into the darkness. I crashed into a velvety curtain, and suddenly, arms made from steel were around me.

"Let me-" I started to scream, but a hot hard mouth had claimed my last word.

He raised his head for a fraction of a second to murmur, "My Christine, do not fight me. You sang the best I've ever heard you this night, and I can't help but wonder: was it for me?" He didn't give me a chance to answer before he kissed me again, and because I knew who he was, I responded with all my heart. This night would be my wedding night, and the man who held me in his arms would forever be mine.

Ballerinas scurried past us as we swayed in the shadows. He maneuvered me against a hard stage wall and clutched handfuls of velvet curtain as he kissed me with a ferocity that did not disappoint. My arms wrapped themselves around his neck as I clung to him like his shadow. The feathery material of my dress twisted around his legs and the hoops protested weakly against the pressure of his body.

With a groan, he wrenched his head away from mine and held my hips within his large hands. "Come, let us go to my home, dearest. No one shall contest that you are mine, now, and our new life has begun."

He led me to my dressing room through a hidden passage and bolted the door against anyone else. "But first, you must be presentable to traverse the streets, lest you be too conspicuous." He gestured at me. "May I?"

He turned me to face the mirror, an angel and a dark wraith in the reflection. Standing bravely, looking at my face in the glass, I saw every minute unconscious expression flit across my face as his nimble fingers found the first knot in my corset. I saw my chest begin to heave as his hands whispered against my skin, and Pop! went the first cross. Snap – snap – snap – I took deeper breathes as the tension lessened and the dress began to slip off my slender body. Once the white material had no more claims upon me, his fingertips took the frothy edges of my sleeves and pulled down – down – my shoulders and arms were bared, but mercifully for me, everything below was hidden in ruffled undergarments.

He looked thoughtfully at me as he saw my virgin blush against the snowy drawers. "I shall have to take up painting and try to reproduce this flush," he commented, running a calloused finger beneath my soft jaw. "Could you stand posing before your lover in such attire?" His insinuations were too much.

I couldn't help it; my knees gave out and I stumbled backwards into him. His strong arms caught me beneath mine, his hands automatically clasping my ribcage. This was the most intimate contact I had ever had with a man, and my eyes rolled upwards to see his expression.

He looked rather like a panther regarding a young doe.

Survival instincts lent me strength to climb back to my feet, and he chuckled at my embarrassment. Quitting the teasing prelude to our evening, he draped an unremarkable pink dress over me and swept his own cloak over my shoulders.

"We aren't staying in the Opera House?" I asked in dazed bewilderment.

"Precious angel, would you think for a moment I would take you where the coarse voices of others would disturb our own opera?" he asked slyly. No more words were spoken as he led me through passages I was only half-aware of walking.

He sang to me softly, and my eyes were wide as much from his words as from the complex harmonies. Few people knew how truly difficult it was to make a new melody fitting within the rules set up by the great masters, yet Erik did it as if it came naturally to him. I ventured a few notes, happily surprised to find I could harmonize with the melody.

I began to dance with happiness. At first, it was just the increased grace of my footsteps, then a random twirl as physical celebration of an ornament in his song. He let go of my hand, amused, and watched me. His lyrics were lighter now, more joyous than his desperate ballads of before. There would be time for that flavor of music later, I thought with an uncharacteristic impure thought.

I caught myself and laughed aloud. Erik, my phantom, swept me up in his arms and kissed me resoundingly. "What has been graced with the good fortune to inspire one of your rare laughs?" he asked.

"I'm as good as married, aren't I?" I asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "What is a marriage but a public declaration of eternal love? What is a marriage contract but a piece of paper? We have declared our affection in front of a greater number than would attend a ceremony, and a piece of paper is a mere formality."

I somewhat disagreed, but I fear, Listener, that my heart had a louder voice than my conscience. "Well, then – I no longer must guard my mind from improper thoughts, since they are not impure in marriage. I can think whatever I like, and –" I suddenly remembered to whom I was speaking, and blushed furiously. _Now _my dignity had acquired the louder voice.

His blue eyes glittered with delight at my newfound revelation. "I shall take great pleasure in discovering these thoughts, mon ange. You have been inspiration for me many times; I trust you shall not disappoint me now."

But, ashamed into silence before my teacher, I looked down at the floor. My dark angel smiled and led me on.

His house was a mansion in the depths of the French countryside. It was night, of course, by the time we arrived, but I could tell that with morning, the sun would caress the golden field surrounding it until flowers bloomed. The architecture was grand; shadows twisted upon the terrace. A fractured light spilled like gems through the stained-glass barriers.

He and I walked, quiet, through the meadow until we reached the doors. A maid unlocked it from within – a young child, not more than thirteen – and took our mantles with practiced ease. "This is Clarice," Erik told me as the child hung the material. "She is the daughter of a dear friend who could no longer support her. I promised him I would provide her with a good home and teach her a respectable trade."

I glimpsed the numerous rooms as I followed him as a wife should, though my glances would have revealed that inside, I was still a child who loved to explore. Though I knew my teacher's character, I knew little of his tastes, and I exceedingly looked forward to remedying this ignorance.

Presently, the Phantom stopped before a door and opened it to me with a flourishing bow. The room was red. The carpet was red, drapes were red, and the walls were crimson fabric. The bed- The Bed!

It was circular, similar to his swan-nest in the cellars below the opera house, but much grander. Curtains were tied back at six bedposts, sheer gauze that revealed the red blankets within that tumbled over the edge. I had to hold my breath to keep from squeaking as I realized that the next time I left this room, my teacher and I would know each other fully, and I would no longer be a maiden.

I stopped just inside the doorframe, and surprised him as he turned and found me staring beseechingly at him. "Yes, my dear?"

"You know that I love you deeply, don't you?"

"Was there any doubt?" he murmured, and he brushed his lips across my forehead; I trembled at their hot, moist touch.

I grasped the lapels of his black shirt and leaned against him. "When did you first figure it out?"

I felt his chest shaking slightly, and I knew he was laughing without sound in that peculiar way he had. I suppose when one spies on the affairs of the opera keepers, it is advantageous to learn to contain one's mirth. "When I came through your mirror the first time. The look in your eyes…" He played with a brown ringlet of my hair. "You looked like a dove that had just seen its nesting place, or a mouse that had realized the beauty of a cat. I can never decide which emotion was in greater abundance."

"I felt like I was drowning in your eyes," I confessed. "You had harvested my love through your lessons and your patience…with the knowledge that you were a physical being, one whom I could hold and to whom I could show my appreciation…"  
>"It gained a physical dimension?" he supplied.<p>

"Yes."

"I'm not sure when I first realized I loved you," he said reflectively, stroking his chin for a moment, then crossing the room to shut the drapes. He removed his outer coat, throwing it over a chair, and loosened the cravat at his throat; I gulped, torn between wanting to watch him and knowing I needed to listen. "I felt great affection for you from the first. I cannot fix exactly when I began to long for the day you would become a woman, and would undoubtedly" – he fixed me with knowing grin – "long for me as well."

It was times like these when I wished I were a more spirited woman, for something in my subconscious told me to be a little offended at his confidence. But, the rest of me accepted his words without protest. How could anyone help but love him? I wondered. It was natural that to know him was to love him.

"But, enough of this. You must be hungry from your performance." Shocked at the change of thought, I stared at him, then followed the gesture of his hand to a plate of strawberries and grapes at the bedside table.

"I thought –" I began in confusion. I stopped, then began again. "Is this what is done on one's wedding night?"

The corner of his mouth twitched. "A prelude is not the love song, but merely something to incite the appetite."

Ah. So, my hopes were not to be disappointed. I made my way to the edge of the bed closest to the table and let my body sink into its depths.

I squealed – I couldn't help it. "Your bed has water within it!" I tried to sit up until I realized that my struggles would make me look undignified. It was a strange feeling, floating on water and slick sheets.

"I designed it," Erik said fondly, and he looked down at the mattress with pride. He was now unclothed to a white shirt and black pants. My heart leapt into my throat. "It is…comforting…like being held within an embrace. Do not fear; it shall not burst." I felt the bed dip and shift as he lay down behind me on his side. He pulled me down to mimic his pose, and my acrobatic heart began to flutter wildly. It has begun, I thought. His large, rough hand rested against my neck for a moment.

"Calm yourself, dearest." He reached over me and picked up a grape between his thumb and second finger. The cool, rounded end brushed across my lips, and I nipped at it, thinking he was to feed me. Instead, he squeezed it so that the pulp exploded from its skin and the juice dripped into my mouth.

I licked my lips and made a quiet noise of satisfaction at the taste. Because of the ability of the waterbed to reveal every movement, I felt him pause, his hand suspended over my mouth still. "I wonder…" he said. His other arm moved beneath my head; he turned me to face him, our bodies facing. Keeping his eyes on my face, he rolled another grape into his palm, and with one quick movement, had crushed it.

My eyes wide, I watched as he opened his hand to me as if in offering. I perceived his request and gasped, my body flushing. How I would have shrieked in proper, ladylike indignation if someone had told me two days ago that my teacher and I would be doing this. But now, he was my husband, and my tentative attempts at affection could – and would – be realized.

With uncertain glances at him as I bent over his hand to make sure I hadn't mistaken him (he would later tell me he found my hesitation most endearing), I held his hand between my own and ate the fruit from his palm. It was sweet, and he tasted of salt and the scent of rain-washed grass. I heard him groan, and my body, inherited from many mothers, loved it. I had pleased my husband in this one way; I had brought him delight.

Once I had cleansed his palm, I raised up my head and saw that his blue eyes had darkened once more. A few strands of dark hair had fallen across his thin nose, and I brushed them away as I tilted my head to meet his lips of my own volition. They were warm and soft, like the tender underside of a kitten's paw pad; he relaxed under my ministrations. He rolled onto his back and pulled me to lie on top of his stomach as I kissed him and explored his mouth. The water purred beneath us. His fingertips trailed across my shoulder blades, causing me to shudder atop him.

When my kisses slowed, he caressed my face. "You've had enough to eat?"

"I desire you, not food," I said, surprising myself with my honesty, but meaning it.

He smiled sinisterly. "Very well." Without looking behind me, he began to undo the rows of buttons on the back of my dress.

In spite of myself, I became lightheaded. "My teach-Erik? Aren't you hungry?"

"I shall satisfy myself upon your bounty," was the reply.

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><p>Ohhhh, yes please!<p>

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	3. Of a Minor Key

Characters & history isn't mine, but the content is! ©2011!

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><p>Chapter 3: Of a Minor Key<p>

Just as his mouth met mine with a new intensity that would mark a long night of making music, an angry shout came from outside our window. "Christine!" that voice yelled in fury. "You can't do this! Your honor, your future – everything for which your father sacrificed himself will be for naught! Do not bind yourself to this peasant, this scoundrel!"

Erik's face darkened like a thunderstorm, and his eyes became blue chips of ice. "Ruffian," he breathed, and the breath was like the first lashing of rain that began outside the window. "How did he find us?"

"Opera rogue, release Miss. Daäe or we shall enter by force and it will go worse for you."

"I know that voice," I said slowly, pushing Erik from me and peering outside the window. "It's the patron, the Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny. We used to be childhood friends. Did I tell you? Why on earth would he be here?"

"Raoul?" Erik echoed, his face twisting. He picked up his mask, bitterly. "And here I thought you'd escaped his clutches forever."

"Erik!" I exclaimed, torn between shock at his familiarity and at the nasty tone in which he spoke.

The lean man disregarded me and opened the window to shout down three stories to the man below. "She has chosen me, Vicomte. Leave us! You can have no objection to our union!"

"There is no record of such a union! As far as the church assumes, you are destroying the innocence of a maiden!"

I saw Eriki's body freeze. His hands gripped the windowsill, knuckles trembling at the tension of the bones below. He uttered an oath of which the church would certainly not approve. He quickly, however, regained a measure of his composure. "Nevertheless, she has come to me of her own will. Surely, the God who created marriage before the church existed would accept the authenticity of our hearts. In His eyes, we are _married, _Vicomte!" Erik snarled.

"She has chosen you while she was under the delusions of fever and madness. You have a count of three minutes to send her through the front door," was my patron's unrelenting response.

"It was you who drove her to me!"

"Nonsense. It was – I will not argue about this in public!" He motioned to the legion of gendarmes behind him who stood at stiff attention, holding rifles. "Two minutes!"

My teacher, my husband, became the Phantom once more. He shut the window harshly and, turning to me, roughly redid the buttons he had undone on both our clothing. "He will rob me of everything," he cursed beneath his breath.

Once he was done, I breathlessly twisted around to him and caught him in my arms. My fingers knotted themselves in his hair. I felt a well of affection for him. No matter what madness he spoke, he was above all my teacher and my husband. "Erik, what does this mean?" I asked tenderly.

"It means, my dear" – odd that the endearment would not seem so endearing – "that there is going to be much drama before our Music of the Night will be sung." There was a swift hammering on the door downstairs, and then a look of terror briefly swept over Erik's face.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Clarice," was the one word; he rushed from the room like a cloud in high winds and glided down the stairs, his cloak misting them like fog.

There was a crash; a blood-curling scream. Terrified for my husband, I followed in his wake.

"Fools! Murderers!" I heard his voice scream at them, and I stood still halfway down the stairs. His voice had never sounded like this. Not beautiful, not powerful – just full of raw, crushed power.

Or _had_ I heard it before? I had the dim memory of a voice sounding so as I was pulled down a spiraling stone staircase, of being frightened of my Angel.

Why should I be frightened? I chastised myself. Confused, nonetheless, I continued down the stairs with slightly less alacrity.

When I saw Erik, he was surrounded by soldiers, kneeling in the middle of their circle, cradling a neat little dress. I came closer and found that feet peeped out from within the fluffy confounds. His back was shaking, and he gave up from his throat a mournful howl. "Clarice!"

My mind was numb. Why was he shouting the servant girl's name? Why was he holding a grotesque doll – a doll that had a hole in its chest reminiscent of that which a bayonet would make. It even had red water covering its chest, like real blood. Surely the sight of this puppet – for a puppet it must be, to be so grossly fashioned – alone wasn't making Erik weep in this way?

"Christine," said a voice warm with relief, and the Vicomte stepped forwards.

Surprised and unnerved by the unwarranted familiarity in his eyes, I stumbled backwards. "Patron," I said formally, "I appreciate your personal visit to convey your well wishes, but why have you brought grief to my wedding night?"

It was grief in his eyes, I found, and not offense, as he turned to Erik. The dark angel had loosed his burden and stood, his pupils nearly ice-white with rage. He looked possessed, but the Vicomte didn't seem to care. "You would have taken her without telling her of what you'd done?"

"She would have been happier without the burden of memories," he said through gritted teeth. "As would have Clarice if you had never come here. Murderer!"

"No, I believe that's your title," Raoul said. Raoul. Why did that name seem so wrong? "She was an obstacle between us and justice - that is, your almost-wife."

This I could understand. "Wife!" I corrected with hostility. "You have done evil to an innocent girl. Leave this home!" Poor Erik. He must be shattered with pain inside. I must tend to him.

"Yes, Vicomte, leave," Erik said softly, his eyes still glittering like snow crystals. "Leave while you can."

Raoul – again, that sour taste in my mouth – chuckled sadly. "You weren't even here, and you defend him. As always." A look of desperate cunning entered his face, and suddenly I was frightened. My eyes cut to Erik, a reflexive plea for help, and his gaze followed mine. "As always." Erik made a sudden movement, and the soldiers seized his arms, holding them in such a way that it was painful for him to make any movement. Raoul himself held a knife to Erik's white throat.

"No!" I shrieked. "Don't hurt him!"

"You want to ensure his safety?" he asked, breathing quickly. "Then come with me."

"Leave my husband!" I exclaimed.

"He's not touched you yet, I'll wager," he said coarsely, and in spite of the pain, Erik began to struggle in indignation. "He's not yet your husband."

"I love him!"

Raoul's eyes had hatred in them. Why did that look so familiar, so naturally known? "Then, just come with me for a week. Let me say what I cannot before him, and then I shall release you."

I paused. Raoul just talking to me. For a week. "And you'll let Erik go? Unharmed? His possessions untouched?" I pressed.

"I give you my word, in front of my men," he swore.

I glared at my husband's captors. "Release him!"

They disregarded my order until Raoul nodded at them. "Do as she says." They slowly let go of their captive, their bayonets still at the ready in case he tried to bolt towards me.

"I'll come back, Erik," I promised. "Stay here. Be safe." I marched to the front door, too upset to pace myself demurely.

"Christine," Erik moaned, and it was the moan of a dying animal. "Please don't go."

The Vicomte spat in his face, and I winced for both of us. "Now you know how I felt, tied against your grate."

An underground lair, lit with candles and full of men's sharp voices cutting each other…and me. A declaration of hatred.

The pain suddenly blossomed over my vision.

I fainted.

I woke in Raoul's arms, and was hit instantly by a dizzying wave of wrongness. "Where's my angel?" I demanded.

His face darkened. "When will you learn, Christine? You _have _no angel. Only an insane man who likes to hammer on ivory keys."

"And you're only a man who sees no kindness in others!" I spat, and struggled.

He put me gently onto a couch. "You're wrong. I see good in _you_." I looked around; we were in the living room of his mansion. How did I remember that?

"The table used to be over there," I said faintly.

His eyes gleamed with pleasure. "You remember."

He seemed too eager, too happy to make that statement, so I warned him, "I'm not even sure what I remember, and why." Surprising myself, I added, "And I don't like you at the moment, so for whatever purposes you would have me remember, you can be assured I won't try to please you."

He gave up a deep sigh, looking so forlorn that I could not help but notice how pathetically lovely he looked. "Christine, we used to be best friends." He sidled over to me and gently pulled me against him.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," I mumbled.

"Christine, haven't you longed for the gentle touch of the man you love?"

"Yes – Erik's!" I cried. But his hands were gently brushing my cheek, my neck, in a manner so tender that I strangely felt some relighting of affection. "Why…why doesn't this bother me?" I wondered, not quite realizing I had said it aloud.

"Do you remember your promise to me on the Opera roof?" he asked. His eyes had lost their cruel edge; they were sincere, soft, and boyish. Innocent for me. "You promised…" He sounded like a little boy who had been told that that his mother had given up on life.

My head hurt. "Stop!" I told him, only aware that he was somehow prompting this pain. But he continued speaking, and a corner of my mind that had become well practiced at such a thing blocked it off. By concentrating on individual notes and words of a song, any song, I could block out that which I knew would cause me unspeakable anguish. I focused on Erik's face, on his gentle sweet beauty, on the luxury of his soft hair.

It passed this way for four months. Raoul had taken no chances; he had taken me to Spain to study with a great past opera singer – a female. He meant well, I suppose, but he had chosen a woman who was so soft and simpering that she was saccharinely disgusting. That's why she was no longer invited to perform. She had no passion, and she let herself be pushed around and ordered. I would have been like that. If it wasn't for Erik – Erik saved me, impaled me with fire. I yearned for Erik's harsh words and insults when I had not learned my lessons as well as I should have. They made me feel alive, aroused within me an angel's vengeance to prove myself.

I kept to my room, plagued by half-visions and glimpses of a past that was becoming all too clear. This past was shattering my understanding of my recent history, creating so many contradictions between the two that I knew not which was real. Erik, my special angel, had once not only been ugly, but had been horrifying. What happened now, I wondered, that he appeared so pleasing to the eye? He had murdered before, but he hadn't lost his temper when Raoul had so stolen me from him a few weeks ago.

Stolen me from him. I had run away from Erik so long ago, I remembered, not because I had been afraid of him, but because I had deluded myself into thinking that Raoul was better for me. Erik - he had lied to me, but he now told me the truth. Or did he?...

What had happened in those months since the final confrontation in his lair beneath the Opera house? Why did he now stay in the attics, instead of the defensive sprawling dungeons? Why did he ignore our entire tumultuous past?

No one in the household would tell me. They had all been carefully schooled – or threatened – by my once-fiancé that they would not reveal to me my recent past. I remembered now almost everything since until before leaving with Raoul, but then my memories skipped to my fake past, the one where I had grown up peaceably with Erik. Wait – I had grown up peacefully with him– but there had been that unpleasant interlude, the chain of events since Raoul entered our opera and fouled everything with his childish innocence.

Where did my memory give way? I wondered. It was like a stenograph; it skipped back to a well-known scratch. I would need to find out. I wondered – where could I quietly find what I sought?

The Spanish Pretender (so my mind labeled the woman masquerading as my Teacher) was pushing me to play Aminta in _Don Juan_, refusing to acknowledge my pleas never to be in that opera again. The memories were too painful, and without Erik there, both as my drug and pain-killer, I knew my health was failing. But they wouldn't listen. They cast Raoul as Don Juan. An obvious attempt to replace Erik. I struggled against my bonds, furious and frustrated at Raoul, at the Spanish Pretender, at the docile servants – yes, even at Erik.

It was one such night, when I was sitting at my dresser and staring at the porcelain figurines as if to explode them with my gaze, that I heard a carriage roll up to the front door. This in itself was not uncommon; many of the upper class – and middle class – had come to see me in the past few weeks. The upper class wanted to sneer at the Vicomte de Chagny's choice for wife and to torment me with the misleading insinuations about my past. Clearly, they knew more than I…The middle class wanted simply to gain my goodwill by trading upon my social fame.

From this carriage, however, screams were set loose that pierced the night air. Familiar screams. I walked to the window, wanting to run but being too afraid. If it wasn't who I thought it was, I would be crushed. If it was, I would cry out, for someone was making him wail in agony.

It was he. I watched with wide eyes as men, gendarmes, yanked him most cruelly from the black box. He chanced to look up at the sky, his teeth clenched in his agony, and the moon speared her light down to illuminate his chest. A dagger was embedded within his gut. I must have made some noise, for his eyes darted the small distance to mine, and – a chill traced down my spine – his expressions raced through love, helplessness, rage, fury, betrayal as he took me in.

I stumbled away from the window, as surely as if his gaze had pushed me back to the comforts of my white room. I heard Raoul's voice, triumphant and ugly. I heard my name ooze from his lips, and my skin shuddered at hearing it pronounced like that of his personal worshiped goddess. It should be pronounced as if I was owned, as if I was the speaker's to command. That was my place, my desire, and I wanted it. I didn't want the white pedestal, I wept to myself, I wanted the black drawl of challenge.

I wrapped my crimson dressing robe about myself – the one thing that reminded me of Erik with which Raoul had not managed to convince me to part – and opened the door. The hallway was cool and dimly lit. I drew a breath and began the song I remembered the Phantom and I had birthed on our way down to his lair. Fitting now, I thought, that I would sing that song; down once more to the depths of some mystery and torture to which I would be drawn for the sake of relieving his pain.

I was about to take the first step outside my room, but my nude foot stopped, poised, above the carpet. My head was sending out warning pulses of pain, and suddenly, two memories fused together: Raoul and I entering his home after leaving my angel's lair for the final time. He kissed me, then, and I had felt vaguely disgusted by his obvious impatience to have me. So soon after the Phantom's lips – _finally! _– upon mine…it was uncouth, like hosting a tea party the afternoon of one's best friend's funeral.

It was unsettling, but I set my foot down firmly. Erik's song continued to croon softly in my ear, more gentle and sweet now. At the foot of the stairs leading to the ancient weapon room of the Chagny's mansion, I suddenly clutched the banister. I heard my Angel's cry, followed by sobbing. Another memory, more recent: "She has chosen me, Vicomte… You can have no objection to our union!"… "She has chosen you while she was under the delusions of fever and madness."

_He will rob me of everything._

I went on, squaring my shoulders and becoming angrier as I went, like waking in a bed from a nightmare bound by sweat-soaked sheets. Why were both of these men hiding these things from me? All I wanted was to be loved by music, a pure and awesome passion to control me and make me submit. They were pushing me down to their own notions, their own ideas of my supposed-fragile nature.

Light came unexpectedly from around the corner, and I plastered myself to the stone wall and listened. Raoul had installed a grate in the walls, I remembered dimly. Not many prison cells, such as might be used in the service of the police at some point. Just one, steel-protected room. Then – my mind suddenly went blank as insistent pain throbbed against my left temple. I listened to the voices as I vainly tried to recapture the thought.

"So the Phantom has been captured at last," Raoul's voice said. So boyish, so lighthearted – contrary to his words. "You are losing your touch, Villain."

Erik said nothing, but then I heard him gasp. The next sound sickened me: the sound of blood-choked coughs, and the sound of a metal dagger being dropped to the floor. "Physician," Raoul called in disdain. "Heal this man, or he'll die."

My heart was racing, but my legs could not move, could not comprehend the meaning of the words. "Fool," the Phantom's voice said, rough and sandpapered with pain, "your 'cures' are doing more harm than good. If you would let me use the tools –"

"Do not listen. I would not see a needle in his hands when my body is within his vicinity. Bind his hands." Chains rattled on the wall. I shut my eyes; this nightmare could not be happening. None of my characters whom I had played had been in this situation. What could I do?

Footsteps made from finely fashioned silk approached, and I fled the room in confusion. From behind me, I heard Raoul's voice: "If I were you, I would make yourself comfortable with your cell; it will be your only inspiration for music. I'll have paper and a quill sent down."

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><p>Dastardly Raoul! Just when it was getting good! ... oh, grrr, get out of the way!<p>

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	4. Half Cadence

Characters & history isn't mine, but the content is! ©2011!

* * *

><p>Chapter 4: Half-Cadence<p>

Every night from then onwards, I would return to the place of Erik's confinement. Some part of my mind was astounded at my behavior; why didn't I free him in the night? I wondered. But the memory of that one glare as he was taken inside the house frightened me. If he should reject me, what would I do? Was not it better to perhaps – barbaric though the idea seemed – leave him and protect myself with the idea that he still loved me? As long as he could not speak to me, he could not refuse this idea. But even that solution was not protection, for as long as he was in Raoul's power, his pain was mine.

Raoul would not only taunt Erik, but would have him cruelly beaten and lashed. "Has your misguided love for my Christine dulled your senses?" he would taunt. "Come, fight back!"

The Angel would merely sigh.

At first, I waited in anticipation, but then I grew irritated. No, he was not fighting back. He knew I was here; if he still cared for me, why did he not produce one of his master plans and escape with me? Had his spirit been broken?

The very nature of the taunts upset me. The Erik with whom I had fallen in love was ruled by no man, but there this black shadow hung, on that blood-encrusted wall. I would watch, tormented by empathy, desire, and anxiety. Anxiety about what? - That he had given up. By the stars above, I thought, these months of being able to hit nothing resistant is driving me mad. I began to wonder if I would hate Erik if I discovered that he was as weak as everything else was.

Raoul did nothing to alleviate these burdens, either. Though he had never shown Erik to me since he came to the house, he kept up a steady stream of dark reflections upon the worst of the Phantom's crimes. My ears were filled with his criticism, and without Erik there to defend himself, my thoughts struggled violently against my mind. You've known him for almost your entire life! How can you be so quickly swayed? my heart would demand. _He lied to me, the same as everyone else has done! _would respond my mind. _If all is not as he taught me, why should I trust him now?_ He is your husband, my heart would plead. If only out of loyalty to him, do not surrender to Raoul! Fight, even if he will not!

I began to hate myself, too. Into what sort of monster was Raoul turning me? That I refused to meet my husband, let alone help him, because I was afraid of being able to conquer him? My own feelings aside, where was the cry of my nature to help others in need?

Except: Erik had never been one of those who needed to be helped. He needed, and required, my affection and confidence in him, but that was not helping. It was just the way things should be.

Or, should they?... My memories of Erik, before, when he was hideous to gaze upon, could not have all been re-colored by time. I could not erase his whispered, "Christine, I love you…" nor could I kill the remembrance of his desperately hopeful eyes. At those moments, he needed me the way a drowning man needs air. He had been helpless without me – I knew this even as Raoul had steered us away on the boat. These were things I did not want to accept, and so I ran. I was a human monster.

What on earth had been – and was – happening to me?

One evening, Raoul informed me that he had business with his league of upcoming scientist-friends. I seized the opportunity, and gathering up my courage, I went down into the dungeons – for dungeons they were. I took the key to the grate, which was hanging upon the opposite wall (how Raoul could look at me with such tenderness while tormenting another man was a foul mystery), and unlocked the rusted iron.

The man in black was hung as though he was on a cross; his shoulders must have been shrieking in agony at the position. His body was no longer lithe: now, it was gaunt, like that of a skeleton. His shirt hung in tatters, and new scars and weeping welts crisscrossed the white expanse of his chest.

Erik looked up at me, and his eyes were expressionless. "Hello."

"How could he have done this to you?" I whispered, horrified into forgetting my whimsical thoughts.

"With your permission, I suppose."

"You truly think that?" I cried, and I began to shake. Even hanging upon the wall, his words cut like daggers.

"You've turned into his lapdog, as I've feared. He's probably filled your mind with lies and falsehoods, and you now share his opinion of me. Do not protest; I've seen your shadow from around the corner, and I've heard the whisper of that very dressing-gown as you leave just before your love-sick puppy returns to your world of plush luxury. Do you enjoy my pain, Christine?"

Dear Jesu, help me! His words, spoken in such a cool and disinterested tone, made my heart flutter and my knees weaken. He was the same! He despised me, he hadn't given up, he hadn't been absorbed by the light of my career and beauty. I could have bowed before him in thanks for insulting me, for giving me something against which to rail. I could have kissed his hand for breaking me out of Raoul's world. His derogatory words were love sonnets to me, the guilt worth a thousand kisses, his disdain for me –

He disdained me.

Oh.

"I love you," I protested. "I'm…sorry…I don't know why I haven't come to you before this. Honestly, I do not! Yes, you're right – this house, with its gloomy corners – Phantom, it frightens me! I can't remember my past after I left you in the lair, and it scares me! Something in this house is stalking me and turning my soul in the dark night –"

I stopped then, for a peculiar, ugly look had twisted the still-handsome features of his face. "'Phantom,' you called me," he echoed. "'Dark night.' I live in the dark, Christine. Would you prefer the glory of his sunshine, Little Lotte?"

Without thinking, I entered the cell and screamed at him. "Do not use that title! I was yours, I am yours, I swore myself to you! How could you think-"

"How many times has he visited your bed?" he asked me, now a spark of interest in his eyes. I could not tell if it was from the question or if he, like me, was aroused by the angry conversation.

Now my heart burned within me, and without thinking, my hand darted and slapped his cheek. The sound broke me from my rage, and I stood in shock, my face white. Erik slowly straitened from his slump, chains murmuring ominously, and his considerable height towered over me. Violently, he took me into his arms as much as the chains would allow. "You will regret that." His mouth crashed on mine. It was not a gentle kiss, nor even loving. _I dominate you, _it told me. _Submit to me, for you are mine. I will punish you for betraying me._ His hand gripped my soft curls, the ones the servants ceaselessly pampered, and used them to rip my head back onto his forearm. I was arched sideways against him, barely standing but for his blood-soaked body. His mouth ravaged my neck like a vampire, drawing tiny beads of blood from beneath my ear.

"Yes," I moaned in a helpless whisper. "Yes, I'm yours. Yes, punish me for all the times I've let Raoul hold me and have imagined it was you. Punish me for thinking you lost affection for me…"

He let me go; I dropped to the floor in dizzy surprise. "What?" I mumbled.

"Me? Lose affection for you? My dear Miss Prima Donna, how could I? You know that my heart has always been precariously held within the clutches of your fragile hands, however unwise such a safe is. You betray that love by even deliberating its death."

"But that look you gave me when you were led inside –"

"Having just been informed of your wedded bliss to the Vicomte? Naturally, I remain in disgust. Your admissions only reveal you have whored yourself. My dear, choose either one man or the other."

"It has only been you, only you!" I cried.

"Sometimes I wonder, with this dancing between us."

My head was now blazing. I dimly saw his eyes soften for a moment, then harden. "It appears that the shame of the truth hurts you, mon ange. Le pauvre." The expression of sympathy was derogatory.

"I hate you! Stop!" The words came from my mouth without quite realizing it happened. It was Raoul's face I saw, and Raoul's voice I heard – only worse, for now they were real and from my angel.

I did not see his face freeze, his wounded chest suck in a huge gasp of air. All I saw was his blood upon the front of my nightclothes, and wishing that it was my own, and that I could suffer so pure a cause as he thought he did. By God, his lies felt purer than my truth. "Then, go, Christine," he murmured. "Go, and I will not trouble you."

I threw him a glance of anguish and wordless wailing, willing my desperation and heartache to show through my gaze. Tears poured from my eyes, and it felt like a sword being sliced through the comfort of my heart. I deserved this guilt, this torture, and to receive it finally was a relief after running from it for so long.

Regret colored his blue eyes after a few moments, and his body slumped once more within the relentless pull of the chains. "I'm sorry."

"My husband," I whispered. He looked up, eyes wounded and vulnerable. This was the point at which I would have fooled myself into thinking he was helpless and therefore unwanted by me. But – this man, with his beautiful eyes and music thriving and dancing within him – was not helpless. At least, not helpless in adoration for me. He did not worship me. He was my master, but he was subject to a greater master: music. If music chose to hide in me, naturally, he would find me. Just as I would find him. The truth seemed right, now, not perverted by months of solitary, warped thought. He and I completed one another; it was _fitting _that he needed me, for my need matched his. "My husband, I have not betrayed you in the manner which you think I have."

"If you did, and you regretted it, it would not matter," he said, his eyes challenging me to listen to him. "But you have rejected me in your heart."

"I have not!" I said, but my mind was frantically shutting down all other thoughts. I began to back away from the words that were pushing me into a corner. I was in that mode into which philosophers say wounded animals enter when wounded: they fight, or they flee. My mind had already charted the course. The pain would be too great; my mind was fleeing.

"You used to be unafraid of the truth," he said, his voice quaking with hidden tears. "I coaxed that love within you, and I taught you to not be afraid of your place in the world." Hours of teaching – teaching that had hidden barbed lessons for life – of philosophy, and of truth, clamored to be remembered. I refused them place. "…You used to be brave enough to love me, Christine. Christine. Christine, pristine," he almost sang. "Christine, crystal. Shining through. Brilliantly cut, but O so easy to break. So white, so spotless. I made you more than a crystal figurine or a chandelier, but it appears you prefer to be on display."

He drew in a shuddering breath, and I noticed that his face was even whiter than normal. We were silent, each of us wallowing in our own thoughts. He did not act like my husband, I thought deliriously. He acted like he still had not courted me. I told him so. "You do not act as if I were yours."

"You are not," he said, and it was not an accusation; it was the water-filled summer leaves dragging across a fresh grave. "You…" he sighed. "You are yet a child."

"Children are not evil!"

"Children do not possess the maturity to bear the ills of the world and to fix them. Oh, a rare few do – I shall grant you that. But most will flee and cry, as do you. They cannot touch evil and keep their happiness."

"Neither can many adults."

"True. But the woman who would be my wife must bear such a burden."

My heart nearly stopped. "Are you divorcing me?"

"Are you acknowledging that we had a marriage?"

Before I could answer, a man's heavy footsteps resounded slowly off the stone steps. "It's Raoul!" Erik whispered, and for the first time that evening, a touch of anxiety touched his eyes. He still cared, I marveled. He still cared. His skin shivered, and I knew he was fortifying his mind with some inner song. It was he who had taught me to do that. I watched him in awe, and wondered what song was in his mind. "Go, go now!" I hesitated, holding the key in my hand. "Yes, lock me in – do it! Christine, whatever affection he has for you, if he finds you down here with me, his mind will pervert it into the delusion that you are helping me escape. _He will kill you!"_

I sobbed once, then rushed forwards to kiss his mouth. My tongue swept through the iron-flavored cavern as if to take into myself all of his burdens. I felt the quick, answering flick of his own tongue against mine, and I nearly melted. Then, he ripped his face from mine and turned it away. "Go, ma chérie. You have won."

I rushed to the doorway and pulled the grate down, locking it, and then practically threw the key into the ring. I stayed in the shadows nearby, to wait until Raoul had passed. I hugged my stomach, trembling with mingled passion and relief. "Erik," I whispered to myself. "My dear Erik, I will find a way for us to escape together." His insults had renewed my spirit, and the words of love forced from his lips invigorated me. I watched Raoul's shadow pass, and my sole fear was that he would impede our escape.

I was about to dart up the stairs when I heard Raoul's voice. It was shaking with excitement, a rarity in their nightly encounters. "My friend has sources, my dear Phantom. He told me you used to work in Persia as an assassin. Wonderful potions they have in Persia, do they not?"

Erik was no longer silent. "May the demons of the hellish underworld drag you down, and may they feast themselves on your deceitful corpse."

Raoul was delighted. "You speak!" he said. Erik responded with a sentence of such highly colored words that I simultaneously wanted to cover my ears and block my mind from the series of interesting ideas some presented. "Apparently, with fluency in four languages," the Vicomte de Chagny noted dryly. "Well, since you have broken your vow of silence – tell me why you let yourself be captured by my men."

"Have you yet told Christine why you took her from me?"

"Because you are an insane freak of nature!"

"No, the second time." Erik's drawl was such that a hysterical giggle welled in my throat.

"Well…no. I have not yet deemed her mind strong enough to bear the details. She is getting closer, though. Perhaps once I display your dead body to her, the last of your curse over her mind will die."

"If anything dies, it will be her mind itself."

"Explain yourself, villain."

I sank down against the wall, holding my knees to my chest. "Erik – do not tell me this without your arms," I moaned quietly to myself. Yet, I was excited. He was about to solve the puzzle for me.

"Wasn't it because of your taunts about my death to her that she ran to me in the first place?" His voice was raised, purposefully, to carry across to me.

A bright flash of memory flashed across my vision, and it was only in the background that I heard the force of Raoul punching Erik and shouting, "Liar!" Pain, pain from memories long sealed for their unpleasantness, rippled over the horizon. "Go away," I moaned to myself. "Do not make me remember…"

_The woman who would be my wife must bear such a burden. _

"Then show me, if you are determined to burn me in fire, and hide nothing!" I told my mind. It complied, and the memories of the most unpleasant year of my life – one without my Angel of Music – burst upon me in a barrage of wrongness.

"If her nightmares told me the truth, you were gloating about having this very grate put into the wall so that one day, such as today, you could torture me and rid her of my existence."

"Be silent! I do not need to be told my own plans."

Raoul, invading every place of my life, but one. Raoul preferring to kiss my cheek than my forehead. Raoul bringing me chocolates and flowers. Raoul taking me to visit everywhere. Raoul informing everyone he had rescued me from the Phantom, but that it was all right, I would never again have to sing on an Opera stage. I would live in comfort and luxury, I would not need to exploit myself. I had everything that I wanted. Music was absent from my life; I had realized that Raoul was stealing everything from my former world that might remind me of the Phantom.

"But she apparently cared for me and our music more than you realized," he continued. "And the thought of my maimed body sent her into delirium. To your credit, you were quite anxious. Perhaps a little too much, eh?" He screamed as Raoul punched his stomach-wound, but then went on with only a little less finesse in his voice. "Going all the way to Provence for a witch doctor gave her plenty of time to find me. Do you think me some sort of sorcerer, that you sought out the scum of the world? You would have done better to find a gypsy. Oh, I was so happy, Vicomte, when she looked upon me with that love in her eyes. She sought me out. I heard her, begging anyone for information about me. I was so angry when I heard her nightmares…yes, so angry." He grunted again from the force of another hit. "You almost killed her."

"You almost killed me!" Raoul yelled.

"Think of it as an attempted favor for God." There was a beat of silence, then the beatings began. But Erik was laughing through it all, almost crying, but laughing. "She cried out for _me _in her dreams. For _me, _the ugly demon from hell!

"The doctor told you that it would be best for you to leave her alone, did he not? That you could damage her mind if you forced her to remember?" His groan was almost animalistic from pain. "I can infer that he did. I likewise did not force her to remember anything which she did not want to recall. Curious thing, n'est-ce pas? When her mind sought a scenario with the least amount of pain, she sought one in which she lived happily with me. She did not want you in any part of her life; it was _my _name she cried out in her dreams, calling, 'Mon ange, my teacher, Erik!' I believe that was the most beautiful sound I've ever heard."

There was a clanking noise, then the sound of a body crashing limply to stone. I peeked around the corner. Raoul was re-chaining Erik's arms to the sides of the room so that he was eagle-spread upon the floor.

"Enough of this," my once-fiancé breathed, and he took from his pocket a bottle, a bottle the size and shape of a lady's perfume bottle. He looked so engrossed by the vial that I crept a little closer. Memories of my past were still whirling through my head, but they were now gently sifting in the background, filling holes that which would complete a picture that I would realize later. With each moment, the horror and revulsion I felt for Raoul increased. "You have cleverly side-tracked the conversation. Let me now tell you something of your own past. My friend told me you used to be an assassin, and that you are a brilliant chemist. You created this acid, did you not? It is no great wonder that you then preferred to work alone. A murderer can't trust any other murderer.

"But your partner betrayed you, when your Queen forced you to rely upon him. It was this very potion that he used to cause your disfigurement, was it not?" Erik was silent, but I heard the chains create a cacophony of protest. "No, you will not escape. Christine envisioned a future where you were together, did she? She was running from the truth, a truth that could never be. You were disfigured for your great sins. You have escaped them temporarily this past year, thanks to that antidote to scars you developed in all of your…spare time spent slinking in the bowels of the Opera house, but your soul will always bear the damnation of your evil. I will now return you to your proper place in Hell: a place where Christine's eyes fill in pity and horror when she looks upon you. There shall be no chemical redemption for you."

I whipped back to my place against the wall and clenched my eyes. There was silence for a moment, then my Phantom's screams filled the dungeon like I had never heard before. It made my own back arch with his pain. We must have been screaming together, for the acid leaked through both of our hopes. I writhed on the floor, clutching the blood on my nightdress as if to hold Erik to my heart. We could not breath: our screams were continuous and endless.

Finally came a pause, and we were gasping for breath. I forced myself to look around the corner, and saw Raoul standing, looking so impossibly innocent while standing over Erik's twitching hand. "Yes, pressure points do pain one the most when met with acid. You yourself discovered that, I hear, with numerous experimentations."

"I hated humanity then," Erik whispered, his breath still catching on every syllable. "I hated them for the evil I had endured while wandering the streets. For making a child do such foul work. I was only eight, Vicomte, when I fled that life and was overtaken by the gypsies."

The golden-haired man held the bottle close to him once more. "Keep talking."

I saw the fingers of the hand clench, but his voice came again, broken. "Christine was my salvation, for she trusted me, and fell in love with my appearance. Music, Christine – they were the same in my mind. Both so unattainable, both so malleable and magnificent. Loved by all, but mastered by none but me. Christine and I fit each other, creator and created, lover and loved."

"Enough! I wish to hear of your capture!"

The fingers relaxed. "Disappointment is a lovely companion for cruelty." Then, the fingers dug into the palms, and the screaming began anew. Blood trickled down from the points of the nails, and the wrist twisted back and forth. My nausea was rising: the smell of roasted flesh was saturating the dungeon.

"It would be justice," Raoul yelled when Erik's screams finally stopped, "if I poured this entire bottle over your face. But then you might twist your head and get it in your eyes, and I certainly wouldn't want you to miss Christine's face when she sees her monster. So I'll simply do this."

This scream was too much, and I buried my face in my knees, blocking my ears. Then, Raoul must have thrown the bottle on the floor, for it shattered. Then, he strode past me, laughing victoriously all the way. He turned at the top of the stairs, and shouted down: "Tomorrow is the premiere of Spain's production of Don Juan. I had intended to play the lead role myself, but perhaps I shall have you fulfill the role that you created. After all, Don Juan dies in the end, does he not?"

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><p>*Hissing*<p>

*Whimpering*

*Hissing*

I'm torn. What do you think?

Please Review!


	5. Perfect Authenticity

Characters & history isn't mine, but the content is! ©2011!

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><p>Chapter 5: Perfect Authenticity<p>

I stayed there for perhaps five more minutes, shaking. I heard Erik's whimpers. "Christine," he moaned to what he thought was an empty room. "Christine, Christine…" I knew that I had to go, for my senses were too bruised to think properly. My head was on fire, memories still being added because of the catalyst of his words. Besides, with Erik being so injured, I knew that he would not welcome seeing me and hearing talk of escape. I went back to bed, determined to think of a way to escape with Erik.

Raoul was mercifully oblivious to my obvious conflict the following day at the dress rehearsal. The Spanish Pretender coached us repeatedly on "The Point of No Return," trying to make us sing it more gently and innocently. The only good thing was that every time Raoul's hands began to grip territories of my body that were indeed scripted but were not proper, the Spanish Pretender made edits. Edits of which, in this case, I most approved. Raoul grit his teeth, but obeyed.

We played the Opera through until the end until each line was confidently delivered, each note hit with the accuracy of a nail by a hammer. The whole of Spain was bursting with pride to have this opera performed, and the ladies began rumors that Don Juan's creator would be playing his favorite role. They only wanted to have the horrors in Paris repeated, and I never enjoyed myself in the past five months as much as I did "stabbing" Raoul out of jealousy and revenge for his wandering eyes at the finish of the opera.

At the end of rehearsal, Raoul took it upon himself to treat me to dinner in the gardens outside the opera house. "My dear, I have a surprise for you," he told me after we had finished.

I tried not to tense, knowing what was coming next. Come, Christine, you must act your finest, now. Put the plan into action.

"We – I – have recently captured the Opera Madman who antagonized you for so much of your life. He had admitted to all of his crimes, and they are even more horrendous than even we thought."

"How did you manage to capture him?" I gasped, my curiosity only partly acted. It would be the easiest part.

"I was walking past a pub with some gentlemen friends, telling them about our upcoming marriage. You don't mind that I told them, do you, Christine? After all, we had always planned to get married."

"No, not at all," I murmured, looking demurely down upon my skirts as a lady should.

"Excellent. In any case, that dastardly man fairly melted out of the shadows – my love, no mortal man within the Lord's Book of Life could move so quietly. He made no apology of having frightened – er, startled – us, but demanded to see you. His eyes would terrify any lesser man. I feared for your life, Christine – after all, you have not been fairing well of late, so I refused him. That man looked as though he would have liked to kill me! He grabbed one of my friends and held a knife to his throat, asking me if that would give me the proper motivation. He insulted me most gravely by saying that I had a 'hero complex,' and invited me to prove him wrong. What could I do, my love? His captive was my dearest friend. I agreed, but as we were walking along, I sent one of my friends to get the police. I was fearful that he might take revenge on both of us, and I wished for an escort to protect us both. The Phantom reacted violently when he saw the gendarmes, and out of fear for their own lives, they had to stab him. I've done the gracious thing and have taken him – my dear, brace yourself – into our very home. Do not look so worried! He is safely locked away, with the best of care. But he has some misguided notion that I have double-crossed him, and he has acted most viciously. Last night, he tried to replicate his past scars upon my face, and it was only narrowly that I escaped."

"How did he become beautiful?" I asked with feminine breathlessness. "Did he go see a witch?"

"A sorcerer, my Little Lotte! A wizard conjured up an evil spirit to take control of the Phantom and make his features outwardly attractive."

"Raoul, is there any way to free the poor man? After all, he is not in his best mind."

The Vicomte's eyes lit up, and I could practically see the lie forming before it left his lips. "Yes. I've gone to see the clergy of the church, and they say that the only way to expel this cursed, violent spirit is to force the man to undergo a passion of emotion. This will reawaken the true spirit of the man."

I tapped my lip, then appeared to start with an idea. "I know, dear Raoul," (I nearly vomited), "that we have long practiced for this production of Don Juan. But, because it was most likely the greatest source of emotion for this misguided man…would you be so selfless as to surrender your part to him at the Point of No Return?"

He clasped my hand and patted it reassuringly. "That was exactly my thought, dear Christine, but I was too afraid to suggest it. Are you sure you would overcome the strain? After all, it was that very song that nearly did you in."

I held my breath. "'Did me in?' Are you referring to what I cannot remember?"

"Yes. In light of our decision, I think now is a good time to tell you. The night before our wedding, the Phantom snuck into your bedroom and knocked you unconscious. Apparently, his exuberance for the task was too great, for he also stunned your brain into forgetfulness. He took you to the Opera house and, in my name, arranged for you to rejoin and continue to be his slave. He terrorized the staff into promising that they would not tell you of your real past." He stood and came to me, holding me gently in his arms. "We are blessed that I arrived before he could take you."

It was irresistible. "But – I remember his servant girl, Clarice. Didn't the gendarme kill her? Was she also evil?"

He looked uncomfortable for a moment. "There is no way to put this lightly. She was his mistress, under his spell as you would have been. It was kinder to free her of this life than force her to suffer under the weight of her sins." He was clearly becoming confused, and I didn't want him to become fearful that I would see through his plan, so I let the issue rest. "All right, Raoul. I understand."

"I shall have the Phantom sent for, surrounded by guards, of course. As soon as he arrives, I shall send you home and we shall encourage him to practice his lines."

"You're so brilliant, Raoul," I simpered. The Spanish Pretender would have been proud of me.

A ballerina was, of course, bribed to dress in my clothes and be delivered home in my carriage. I wanted to stay and watch the rehearsal. I watched from the back of the hall, too far for anyone to distinguish me (sadly, nor I, them). But I could hear him. Erik was led out, captured in chains, but walking under his own power. I almost cried out to watch him obviously suffering, but when the orchestra played, he seized onto the music and perceptibly surrendered to it. He was unashamed and unabashed to reveal himself so completely within the music, frantic only to immerse himself in his beloved work once more. It was a renewal so total that it seemed intimate, like the meeting between husband and wife. My eyes wept to see him so obviously in love with the lines, caressing each word as if it was an angel come to embrace him. Each note was held and blossomed, dancing in unity with the orchestra. I alone noticed when his voice quavered not from vibrato, but from tears of ecstasy.

This was the Phantom once more; with each note healing him and strengthening him. He was a dark angel from Heaven, and I felt myself submitting to his spell with wide eyes. He was not a man, but the Master of Music. He was an angel, full of finesse and passions. He could defend himself, he was a genius – but here was where he shone, where he was in his kingdom, in his element. Everything was his; the walls fairly bent from their braces to be closer to him. I willed my heart to sing to him, to prod his heart gently and tell him that I was there with him.

The Spanish Pretender tried time and time again to change his actions to her milder version (the ballerina in his arms was nearly swooning), but he just stayed silent and indifferent to her commands. Finally, the rest of the actors forbade her to attempt to change him; they wanted to listen to his voice. It swelled over the seats, racing over balconies and vaulting over ceilings. The whispers found my heart, and the red mark beneath my ear where his teeth had pierced my skin. My breath came faster, and accordingly, his voice become deeper and richer.

He couldn't know that I was there, draped in black and in the furthest seat from the stage, but it seemed impossible that he could not be aware of my existence. His music was making love to me, a plea to join him. My fingers gripped the armrests of the chair to keep myself from rushing down the aisles into his arms. My love for him flowered anew, and my desperation awoke from its cold shackles in greater intensity than ever before. What had I been doing, waiting because of my delusions mocking his greatness?

Here was the rebuttal to all of Raoul's pathetic attempts to humble him. Here was the proud king, the manipulative mage, and the sleek assassin. I defy all of you, he seemed to say. Let he who would die dare to test himself against me. I felt shocked, as I looked down upon my chest, that he had entrusted his faith and life to my small heart. For all of his stealthy, predatory nature, what awesome tenderness must crescendo in his bosom for me, what noble passion for me.

I was spellbound until the end of rehearsal, and when he was taken off stage, I knew that I must flee to be home before Raoul arrived. I resolved never to again let Raoul find us and separate us after this night.

The night of the concert, everyone in the Chagny household fluttered over me as if they were afraid I would faint at the sudden realization of what I would do that night. I accepted all of their ministrations with a secret smile: they would be scandalized if they knew what would truly happen. One bright spot in my afternoon was that Meg had arrived, as a favor to Raoul, to give me moral support. She, of course, was a loyal subject to our king, the Angel of Music, and once she heard of the torture he had suffered at Raoul's hands, she was more than happy to obey my every suggestion.

I do not know how she managed to do it, but she attained Erik's book of chemistry notes from Raoul's friend. I could see from her smile that it was a mischievous and daring adventure, and I resolved some day to ask her about it. I made her a copy of the notes of the antidote to his acid while firmly ignoring the numbers of people who had been killed or mutilated by the acid. He had started a new path; he was forgiven in my heart.

These chemicals were packed into my satchel beneath traveling clothes. With the remainder of the time, Meg and I took refuge in my room. We shared girlhood stories, and had the proper sort of afternoon that girlfriends should have before one's wedding night. Erik had not meant to deprive me of this, but inadvertently, he had. I was grateful for this second chance, for by the end of the afternoon, Meg and I had learned much from our respective pools of knowledge about how to please our future husbands.

Raoul came into the room, then, and Meg and I clasped each other tightly. "Do not fail," she whispered to me. "He is your future, my dear friend. Do not lose him."

"I swear to you, I will not. Thank you, Meg. You have been my dearest friend."

"Not your dearest, my almost-sister." We stood, arms about each other's waists, and walked past a mystified Raoul. "Your Dearest Friend yet waits for you to rescue him." She kissed me as would a sister. "I shall poke my tongue out at Raoul as the curtain falls upon him," she giggled.

"I shall watch for it, and join you in spirit."

I did not see Erik until the moment when the Point of No Return had begun. I suspected it would be that way, for Raoul must be as terrified for me as he was eager that the Phantom would be crushed by my repeated refusal of his affection. Erik was locked away somewhere, probably in costume and masked.

Raoul kissed me briefly, and without warning, as when we both exited backstage. "I shall watch for your triumph, my dear," he whispered. I looked up and saw Meg's dutiful pink tongue from the bridge above the stage, and suppressed a giggle. It made Raoul's sickening infatuation easier to bear.

"I swear to you," I told him, "that the Phantom will never again intervene within your life."

"Our lives," he corrected, and held my hands.

"Raoul, I must go!" I protested. "There's my cue!"

"Don't forget me," he pleaded, and I remembered his look of dawning awakening the last time the Phantom had sung me this particular song. I almost felt pity for him, that he was about to be so betrayed. Almost.

"I shall not forget my duty," I told him, and wrestled my naked arm from his grasp. He began to look afraid, but once I had taken my first step on stage and begun my first note, he could do nothing. He could only watch in helplessness. What a fool.

I heard Erik's first note, and shook with happiness. The fine hairs on my arm stood at attention. Erik walked towards me, singing as a professional would sing: without regard for personal feelings. He had indeed set himself as Don Juan perfectly, for his greatest strengths – those of mastery, domination, stealth, and sinister seductiveness, were revealed in every ripple of his voice and line of his body. His hand was hot and rough as it seized my neck and slid like bath water down my arm. It was almost as if the past year and a half had never happened – including the mask. Of course, he was wearing it now not only for the music, but also for himself. He was perfect, I thought, as I let the audience feast their eyes upon us. They had all realized, of course, that it was not Raoul, and I could feel their souls pushing at the edge of the stage to join Erik.

I swayed and pulsed to his music. Meg would later say that we almost set her afire for the obvious desire that arced between us, and I believed her for it. The violins, like lush skirts, harmonized with him. The flutes were the ideal contrast to his tenor seduction: their childlike innocence submitted to their mockery by his far-from-innocent words. The rhythm was daring, like some lovely, flowering whore tempting her favorite patron.

Then, I began my solo, my response to his proposal. I watched him as I sang. I, I who had become well versed in the subtle moods of his eyes, could read the hesitation and fear. I wished I could send him the truth of my words within the music, but he was obviously afraid that I was acting as well as I had the previous time we had sung this.

I submitted to the music for him, let my voice deepen and mature. I called to him from across the stage, seeing him swallow and begin to strengthen from my passion despite his anxiety. I could detect the slightest warble to his voice as he joined me that normally seized and ravished notes. He was afraid. Afraid of me. He was singing his own heart out.

How this must be hurting him, I thought in a detached way. This was his song, his triumph, and now he was being made to sing it on a possible walk to the gallows. I schooled my face not to betray any emotion unsuitable to my acting, but inside, my heart overflowed with love for him. In just a few moments, I would correct the evil that I had done long ago.

We climbed up the stairs, crossed the bridge to each other. The words were intoxicating with desperation, and though Erik's touches were as confidently masterful as Don Juan's, I could feel his arms trembling against me. When the last words were sung, I waited. The last fifteen seconds, perhaps, those crucial moments that had decided the history of my past life. They would be corrected.

The beats slipped away, and I waited for him to take in that breath to begin singing again, but none came. Instead, I felt him shaking. "Please don't make me do this," he begged beneath his breath. "I can't bear it."

"Do it!" I hissed to him, my professional side panicked over missing an entrance.

Therefore, he began to sing again, and this time, it was obvious his voice was shimmering with tears. "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime…Lead me, save me from my solitude…Say you'll want me with you, here, beside you…" His voice suddenly rang out over the audience, a full fortissimo. "Anywhere you go, let me go too!" I felt a tear slip down his face onto my bare shoulder. He paused, gathering his strength. I felt the notes choke in his throat.

"Use my name!" I ordered. "Just like last time."

"Christine," he choked, "that's all I ask of you." The audience gasped, fearful fluttering beginning as they suddenly realized who Erik was, and remembered what had happened in Paris – yet, they would not move from their seats. Human curiosity had glued their eyes to our forms.

I knew Raoul was watching me from the sidelines, waiting for me to betray Erik and break his spirit. It wouldn't matter to Erik, then, how the soldiers tortured him. He would welcome death; Raoul wanted this.

I didn't.

I lifted my hands to Erik's face and saw telltale lines of the recent scarring spilling like spider's legs from beneath the mask. His eyes filled with tears as I removed the mask, and he winced to hear the crowd's gasps. Raoul had created a long, hideous scar from his right eyebrow to jawline, and had used glass shards to make tributaries off the river of red. I let my fingers trace over his jaw, over the soft skin of his cheeks. He closed his eyes, warm tears gliding over my fingertips. "Do not torture me, Christine."

I kissed him.

I heard a helpless cry from his throat, a shocked uttering. His eyes burst open. I watched myself in the reflection of his eyes as I kissed him, molding myself to him recklessly. His eyelids fluttered shut, and I felt him reach beside me to grip the railing for security. Let the ladies in the audience faint from the display, I thought deliriously. Erik was once again in my arms. I let go of him for a brief moment. "Won't you kiss me, my Phantom Angel?" I begged.

"Christine," he moaned, and with a shiver that spread from his body to mine, I was his. He bent me over backwards as his mouth met mine and plundered the soft love he found within it. I was quivering, held in limbo by the steel vice of his arms, and I loved it. My teeth found his neck and bit down; he groaned. I sobbed with joy beneath his mouth and clutched his warm, broad shoulders. We were afire in the light of Heaven, and we were proclaiming our love to the whole world.

His hands tangled themselves within my hair, my shoulders pressed to his. He looked up, briefly, as he saw soldiers flooding the bridge. Raoul had panicked; the Opera was over.

So was he.

With a grin for me, Erik caught hold of a hanging rope and spiraled down into the darkness of backstage. We waited in the dark, our breath hot and stifling, but both of us gasping and laughing silently. There was an ominous pause from the audience, then a slow clap that escalated into thunderous applause.

"I much prefer this truncated ending to your opera," I told Erik breathlessly.

"I'll never be able to give them the finale if you and I are playing!" he chastised me, his eyes drunk on happiness. "Oh, but what a finale you've given me! Christine, I thought you were going to –"

"I know, and I'm sorry I couldn't relieve you before this time. This was the only way."

His hand suddenly went to his face. "He- he-"

"Shh, my darling." My hands stroked the gorges on his face; I knew I was crying. "I heard you, while he was doing it to you. I didn't leave after that night. My sweet angel – I cried out for you."

"As I for you," he sobbed.

"You were so brave," I murmured. "Such courage, such love in such a maltreated heart." I took his arms and slipped into the suddenly tight embrace he gave. "Come, my love. Burns can be treated, if that is your wish. Regardless – I have what I want and need." I led him away, through a back door, as the soldiers scurried and fumbled in the velvet darkness for us. I constantly looked back for him, encouraging him and reassuring myself that he was following me. His eyes showed curiosity at my new boldness and maturity. I was now matched for him.

He swept me up into his arms at the stage door, crying out my name, and the burning in my body was not cooled by the lack of stage lights. Soon, my tones would be joining his in that cry of love.

"I believe you owe me a wedding night to shame all others."

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><p>GOOD JOB, Christine! Poetic justice!<p>

Now, brace yourself, ladies and gents, it'll be a bumpy ride! ...erm, that came out wrong.

Please Review!


	6. The Echo of the Final Chord

Characters & history isn't mine, but the content is! ©2011!

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><p>Chapter 6: The Echo of The Final Chord<p>

Before taking me to a summer home far away in the countryside, he had us officially married by in a tiny, unassuming church. Neither of us were willing to wait for an elaborate marriage (and how long until Raoul would seek overt revenge?), but Erik was adamant about barring Raoul from stealing me away again. He had come to value the solidarity that comes from legal and spiritual binding of public marriage. I didn't tell him, but I, too, felt a satisfying finality as the ordained priest declared us, and God, three chords bound as One until death.

His summer home was elegant and white from the moonlight, but I would only notice that in hindsight. I could not even wait for us to alight from the carriage, only for the driver (a friend of Erik's) to leave. As soon as he left, I threw myself upon Erik and we landed in the soft oriental grass. Buttercups gleaming faintly in the night whispered against his face, upon his wounded cheek. I was envious of them, and pushed them from him with my lips. His cloak splayed out around him, and the heat from his body curled up around me and drew me closer to him. "My dear," Erik rasped, "you would find the field a rather uncomfortable place, I think."

"Don Juan would have me stop?" I teased, and kissed his throat. He shifted beneath me, biting his lip, and I saw his hands clutch handfuls of grass. My body began to burn as I kissed the Phantom of the Opera and heard the sounds of approval. I licked his neck and reveled in the salty taste.

"You've grown bolder," he observed.

"Only for you, only for you," I murmured as I made short work of the ties of his cloak and his shirt. He was still in costume for Don Juan – although the "costume" would not have been out of place here in Spain. His marble-white skin was pearly and surprisingly cool upon first touch, like porcelain figurines in summer. But, his skin warmed after my fingers had claimed that initial caress. I lavished my attention upon the hollow at the base of his throat, and one of his hands stroked the back of my head comfortingly. It was strangely arousing, like a crying child sucking their thumb in a rainstorm: at once comforting and cold. "Sing for me," I said.

"Is that a request or a command?" he asked, his voice rougher now.

"A plea from your servant," was my response, and my lips begun to tickle from the vibrations of his throat. "You sang wonderfully tonight," I told him as he continued to sing the song he had titled "Music of the Night." He must have realized how much I favored that melody. "I can scarce remember a time you've rendered the audience more captivated."

"Two out of two? Well, the odds are still in my favor," he said, stopping the song for one moment, then resuming. His left leg drew up to rest his foot flat against the ground, holding me more securely on him. I began to squirm against him, and the song cut off abruptly as his head jerked back against the ground. His intake of breath was long and carefully deep. His response emboldened me, and I accentuated my movements for his pleasure. "Oh, _Christine…_"

Hearing my name said in such a manner prompted me to move upwards and claim his mouth with my own. The grass swayed in tickling touches against my neck and I shivered as his arms rose up and locked me into place on his chest. His mouth was hot and eager; he enjoyed me fully, taking time to memorize me until the instigator was the recipient. I moaned to him, and he rolled over to pin me against the ground. His weight felt lovely and right against me; my breath was forced from my lungs, and he gave me his. His hands traced up the sides of my belly, and even through the admittedly thin corset I wore, my skin shuddered in delight.

Then, though, he stopped. He rolled over and sat up, showing me the dirt on his palms. "I would not soil your body," he said with a grin. He stood and offered me his hand. He looked like Hades, so I of course gave him my hand. He pulled me up quickly and led me into the house. The master bedroom was darkened, and Erik lit only a solitary candle near the bedside.

He twined an arm around my waist, gentle now, and I twined mine around his shoulders. In the semi-dark, I closed my eyes and let sense and sounds guide me. His lips were dancing down the side of my throat as I leaned my head against his shoulder, and I lapped at the skin of his neck closest to me. He slowly danced with me, pushing me back and further back until I felt a round edge at my knees. I broke the kiss to look up at him, and he raised a challenging eyebrow at me. He gave a gentle push forwards with his hips, and we fell over onto the bed. The water heaved up and down, and I shrieked and clutched my Angel tighter.

"_You brought the waterbed with you?"_ I demanded.

"Well, I remembered how much you liked it," he shrugged. Then, he crouched above me and turned me over onto my stomach. Instantly, my senses heightened even more.

"What are you doing?" I demanded shakily. I felt him drawing nearer and arched into the bed, making the edges rise beneath his hands.

He didn't answer. He brushed aside my hair from the back of my neck and breathed over it, making me cry out his name. The hot breath poured over the sides of my neck, and I thrashed beneath him. "Patience, mon ange." His teeth found the knot at the back of my corset and began unlacing it, one hook at a time.

The material loosened around me, and my hips rolled into the waterbed. "Erik, O Erik!" I pleaded.

"Arch up." I did so, and my back rubbed against his stomach. He sat up and reached beneath me to throw the corset to the other side of the room, and with one deft swipe of his hand, had ripped the material of my dress down the back. I whirled around instinctively to hide my naked back from his hungry gaze and instead found myself flat on my back with his hair shielding my face from any other object in the room. His blue eyes, glinting as brilliantly as ice from the sides because of the straining of the candle light, fixed upon mine. The scar on the side of his face made him look as ferocious as I knew he was inside, and my heart fluttered faster. "Raise your arms," he commanded, and I obeyed. He likewise ripped the seams of the sleeves away from me so that all I had was a thin sheet of clothing covering my torso.

"Will you destroy every article of clothing I have?" I gasped on a laugh.

"Only when you have made me wait in hunger for you. Oh, Christine, you have no idea how long I've waited for you, how long I've wanted and needed you…"

"I'm sorry I've delayed this day."

He released my eyes from his gaze and began to trace my bare collarbones. "You have a fine bone structure," he told me. "Like bird's wings…" His lips traced each ridge, nibbling upon my white skin. I ground my hips against him, and he chuckled against me.

"Erik," I asked, "why _did _you let yourself be captured?"

He froze. "I do not wish for you to weep on your wedding night."

"I will likely weep from the joy which you will give me. Come, darling, tell me."

He sighed and rose from the bed. "Very well." A dressing gown was tossed at me so I could sit up and see him. I put it around my shoulders and tied it shut, then shimmied off the costume in its entirety.

Erik was standing before the mirror, mixing the chemicals I had in the bag. "This could take a while. You don't mind if I fix this while we speak, do you?" he asked over his shoulder. I shook my head; I saw that he needed something to do with his hands, some excuse he could have to delay speech.

"I…When the week had finished and you did not return home, I feared that something dreadful had happened. I hunted over the world for you, but you were not to be found. That took three months…

"I will not describe to you how my heart rose and fell each time I entered and left a country without you. I finally came into contact with the Vicomte's half-brother in Germany and, having no great affection for him, he told me that he had taken you to Spain to forget about me. I left immediately and began scouring the cities for news of you. About that time, posters were put up for the production of Don Juan. I conceived Raoul's intentions, and began to follow him."

I came behind him and wrapped my arms about his narrow body. He glanced at me in the mirror and gave me a small half-smile. He was silent for a few moments. He had beautiful hips, I realized. Just the slightest curve to them. He was made for aristocracy and delicacy, though he had rage like a jaguar.

My hands splayed over his flat stomach, my fingers crisscrossing over his hipbones. He sighed and continued to work. I waited patiently for him, gently exploring his upper body through the white shirt. "I heard," he finally said, "from the Vicomte himself that you were already married to him. I had no doubt that he was boasting to his friends – else the name on the posters would be changed. But, I wondered perhaps whether you had been engaged and were so near to marriage that…After all, we had never consummated our union, and I …thought that perhaps you had remembered, after all, and hated me."

"That could never happen," I murmured.

"You have said twice that you did."

"Twice I lied, and I apologize."

He shrugged beneath my hands. "I have done worse to you. Forgiven." He put the chemical concoction into a glass beaker and arranged it over the candle flame. "Now, we wait." He sat back onto the edge of the bed and pulled me onto his lap. His hand pulled my head to his neck and stroked my shoulder softly. "Anyway. I became determined to see you…The Vicomte was so surprised to see me in Spain that he refused me admittance before even thinking about my request…I confess, I held a knife to the throat of one of his friends. He does have an inflated sense of righteousness, and I knew that he would do anything to appear the Knight before his friends.

"But on the way to the house, I was ambushed. Christine, I was not equipped to take on many men larger than me. What is a dagger against bayonets? Without proper weaponry, I deal in stealth and trickery; I was outnumbered and outweighed. Even quickness and lightness of foot would not have helped me."

"I admire that about you," I whispered. "Your true danger is not flaunted in the streets."

I felt him smile. "You_ would_ think that, wouldn't you? Well, mon ange, they stabbed me with my own steel in order to subdue me. I was afraid that removing the dagger and struggling would force the point into some organ and that I would die before I saw you. The rest, you know."

"But – why did you want to see me?" I asked in confusion. "Why not wait to seek me out when I left the house?"

He gripped me tighter. "If I was sentenced to live without you, I wanted to die by your hand – or, as close as I could get to it. Dying in the same house, by one who had – or would – know you intimately… It was as close as I could get." His chest shook in that dry, silent laughter. "That, and I knew it would drive Raoul mad when I would not play the part of a villain and respond to his cruelty."

I held his shoulders. "How close we both came to tragic ends."

He agreed with a low hum. "You and I are too loosely reined by emotion. We must work to balance one another." The concoction above the candle began to bubble, and Erik whisked it off; it cooled immediately into a white cream. I joined him, kneeling on the floor. "Christine, may I ask a favor of you?" he asked.

"Anything."

"This cream must be applied directly to the wounds, and I fear that I will exasperate some of them if I cannot see what I do. Is there any way you could?..."

" '_Some?' _Erik, he did more to you than – than your face?"

He bit his lip, his face smoothly indifferent, and tears sprung to my eyes. "My dear teacher," I groaned and flung myself to his chest. "I will protect you, I will!"

At this, he looked very amused, as if a white fluffy kitten had promised to protect the lion. But, to his credit, he did not laugh and merely let his appreciation dominate his expression. "Will you be all right doing this for me? Or shall I find a friend on the morrow to do this?"

"Absolutely not," I replied firmly. "Remove your shirt." He gave me a hot look, and I smiled abashedly. "Well, it would have had to come off, anyway," I muttered.

He laughed shortly and raised the shirt over his head. He threw it to me; it hit my face as he said, "Cover your hands with this. It will irritate non-wounded skin." As the candle threw shadows on him, I gasped, falling back onto my seat and clasping my hands over my mouth. Angry red welts, worse than before, covered almost every inch of his chest. I wondered how I could have missed it while he was stalking me on the stage.

The blue eyes became shuttered. "Never mind, Christine. It's obvious that you can't handle-"

"Stop, Erik," I told him. "I'm fine. I – Oh, Erik!" I wobbled forwards and began carefully to kiss every scar as if my kisses alone would heal them. He bit his fist to keep from crying, and I removed that from his mouth and kissed the teeth marks as well. Before I lost any more of my composure, I dipped the shirt in the white salve and spread it over his chest.

"Do it thinly at first," he requested. "Just in case there is not enough…" I covered his chest, neck, back, arms, and the side of his face with four layers. He flinched each time my cloth-covered fingers touched a groove a little too deeply, and I tried my best to remember what was the proper distance. He told me that we then needed to wait for fifteen minutes, and for the duration, we just gazed at each other. Yes, he looked as though he had been caught in the middle of a cream-pie fight, but I did not laugh. The candlelight was glittering in his hair, and his eyes were like liquefied summer sky. I felt languid and peaceful in his gaze, just like I had as a child. Except, now there was a new intimacy, for we had known each other emotionally.

At the finish, he lifted the shirt and made as if to wipe the residue away. "Let me," I begged. He wordlessly handed it over, and I gently rubbed the edge against his forearm. I stared wordlessly. "They – they're disappearing!"

He smiled. "That was the goal, my love. With each dose, they'll fade a little more."

"But – how –"

"The body replenishes its skin just as the snake sheds its scales. All the human body needs is the…proper motivation, and a few encouragements from the chemicals of the earth, to make new what was dead." He laughed bitterly. "Would that I had discovered these motivations and encouragements before I had frightened you. Perhaps none of these tragedies would have happened."

"Then the demons within you would not have been expelled." He nodded as if to concede my point.

Each inch of skin delighted me more and more, for each inch erased a little of Raoul's cruelty from him. I reached the scar on his face, and before I wiped it off with the now-greasy shirt, I told him, "I want you to know that I would have loved you just as much with this as much as without. Do not ever think I love you most because of the beauty of your face. It only enhances the spirit within. I would love you just as much if you looked like – like–" I cast around for something silly that would make him smile, "- a piece of cheese."

There; that made him laugh. His eyes crinkled at the corners, and one side of his mouth pulled up in a strangely boyish grin. "Thank you, Christine. I'll remember."

With careful precision, I daubed the cream away from his face and thanked God for the potential for the renewed beauty of his visage. We both stood, and I turned him to face the mirror. Could there ever be more right an image?

I reached up and kissed him, and, without breaking the kiss, he pounced on me and threw me onto the bed. "Enough of this gravity. Where was I when you so rudely interrupted my quest?" he asked, his eyes dancing with mischief. I giggled at the sudden move, but then gasped as his merriment turned to enthusiasm for my shoulder. "Ah. I remember."

He slowly slipped down the dressing robe, marking each centimeter of my body with his mouth. He discovered with the intentness of a musician learning new music each spot on my body that made me gasp and beg for more.

My breasts delighted him. I had always been a small girl, and had longed for a body such as Meg's, which never lacked for fullness. But Erik loved all of me. He seemed entranced with the luminosity of the candlelight off skin that had never seen the light of day, and his fingertips traced invisible patterns on my belly.

His mouth burned me, and I grasped his still-slick arms, squirming. A cry tore from my throat when his hand, long, white, and suited for piano and organ, found that most secret of places. His eyes found mine and I lay gasping, a fine sheen of sweat on my alabaster body. "Do you know," he said conversationally, "that in some of the pagan countries, women are worshipped like goddesses for such a beautiful sight as you make before me?"

"It is you who should be adored with entire operas on the subject, and not I," I groaned, twisting against his hand, "for making me feel this way."

"I would prefer the eloquence of your lips," he told me, and punctuated his words with another twist of his hand. I rose up and met his mouth, sighing and writhing among the pillows. They were silk and glossily firm. He brought me to the point of ecstasy time and time again, my teeth clenching as he fulfilled every promise of his music. He sang to me, crooning in my ear wonderful things that he would do and observe about me, and I cried his name until my throat was hoarse. But he refused to let me myself be fulfilled; each small release was tantamount to the release of a note climbing a crescendo. My eyes were as black as his had turned for him.

I was begging him to let that crescendo reach its peak; I could not stay still, though his right arm pinned my hips down across the bed. The water was purring beneath me as I thrashed. "Please, Erik! Oh, Erik – Erik – please!"

"Are you ready for me?" he breathed in my pink ear. My answer filled the room with a feminine sound that no man could misinterpret. He smiled at me and divested himself of the last of his garments, then lowering himself to me. Our skin was touching, fire and ice, at almost every point, and I was weeping for joy.

My arms wrapped around his neck and my leg around his hips. My breasts were flattened against his weight, and I was filled with a sense of utter rightness, of love for the man who would shortly be one with me. On the edge of the precipice, I now understood more fully than ever Erik's inspiration for my favorite songs. I could hear music all around me, within me, within every line and curve of our entwined bodies.

"Christine…" he called to me. "Christine…"

"Yes, Erik," I told him, aware that I had just given him permission to the greatest gift that a woman could give a man whom she loved. I had let him open the gateway, and I lay in anticipation for him. He parted my thighs, slowly pressing forward. I told my body to release itself, to grant him access. A shiver raced from that point to my head, and I went limp.

I could feel the first penetration, and my eyes opened wide. I gripped his forearms. "Erik!" I called, the urgency my body felt coming through in my voice.

He stopped immediately, misunderstanding the urgency and breathlessness of my voice. I was immediately struck with the heady sensation of teetering on a cliff. In just a few moments, I would no longer be a virgin. I was giving up my almost-holy status. Teetering on the edge of the unknown – a black and white hazy place grounded only by the feeling of him within me.

This was something forbidden to me until now, and the lingering thrill of tangling with danger was making my body shake even now. "Christine, speak to me," Erik commanded.

My heart was racing, my old hesitancy of the unknown seizing me in that moment. I could not see, could not hear. I could only feel. "Erik, I'm scared," I confessed. Instinctively, I wrapped my legs around his waist, and my breath hitched at my body's sudden awareness of how easy it would be for him to slide that precious distance.

A flicker of annoyance, fueled by impatience, passed through his eyes, and I strangely immediately felt calmer. He was in control, even if I was not. He shifted his weight to one side, and his rough, long fingers began to stroke over my right hip. His slightly tanned fingers were a beautiful contrast to the white curve. The nervous dancing feeling in my belly did not diminish, but changed to a different sort of dancing. I gulped, and my eyes did not miss how he followed with interest the movement of my breasts. His fingers tightened for a moment, a reassuring squeeze.

"Mon ange, tu m'aime, c'est vrai?" _You love me, don't you ?_

His slow, soothing French made me lick my lips. "Avec tout mon coeur." _With all my heart._

"Alors, le problème est quoi ? " _Thus – the problem ?_

His self-confidence set me afire, and my fear turned once more to a clinging desire, embodied by the sound a kitten might make when searching for its mother. "Will you…will you hold me for a moment?"

He smirked. "Mon ange, it would be easier if you…released me. Any sudden movements might…"

My arms tightened around him, and my legs flexed, inadvertently drawing him a little deeper. "No."

He drew in a deep breath. "…Like that." Carefully, very carefully, he lifted my upper torso to meet his. His lips caressed my neck, and I could feel a throbbing pulse between my legs.

"What will it be like?" I wondered aloud.

"We could find out," he suggested with a roll of his eyes.

Caught in the midst of a tempest of emotions, this sign of disapproval from my respected teacher made my eyes fill with tears. I wanted to please him, I really did. "I'm sorry," I whispered.

"Shh," he soothed. "Here." His mouth met mine tightly, grinding into mine and twisting. He lifted his face enough to speak, murmuring, "Our hips." I understood the analogy he was drawing, and moaned. He gripped my face within his hands and with his tongue, parted my lips. His tongue slipped inside my mouth, exploring it. It found my tongue and began to caress it with the same strokes that his hand did upon my hip. The duel sensation made me squirm, and his mouth abruptly rose. His eyes, dark as the midnight sky, burned me. "Do not do that again, or this demonstration will cease."

"I shall try not to." The kiss began again, but this time, his tongue began thrusting against mine. I kept still as long as I could, but the combination of sensations overwhelmed me. His naked body against mine, my half-entered state, his fingers on my hip, his mouth rotating against mine, his tongue invading –

My hips rolled, and he hissed. "I am beyond my endurance. I hope for your sake…" I gripped his face to mine again, and as he kissed me, he slid forward into me.

My head jerked back and I shouted; his eyes instantly darted to mine as he sank to meet me fully. His pupils were dilated, his eyes narrowed in pleasure. He held himself steady on his elbows, our torsos still intimately pressed together. "Chris-tine," he panted. "Tell me to stop. Command me, else I shall not."

"Just – wait a moment," I pleaded. My fingers traced across his neck and face; he shuddered, and I could feel the movement _within _me, and I involuntarily clenched around him. To his credit, he barely moved at all in response to _that_, but it still hurt. I saw the shaking of his muscles and felt my dwindling pain. "All right," I breathed. "Move."

He shut his eyes and surrendered to the desires of his body, moving slowly and rhythmically. I _burned _with each stroke, and my legs twined around his hips and my arms around his neck in an effort to get closer. "Faster," I pleaded, not quite knowing what I would feel, but feeling it getting closer.

He complied. My mind was hazy, yet crystal clear with his presence. I was aware that I was screaming his name, over and over again, and yet he continued to move. I tried to meet him, thrust for thrust, but he was stronger than I, and soon all I could do was meet every third and wait for pleasurable torture to cease. There was no way to escape, and I shook in the cage of his arms. Sweat covered us, and the bed became hot and damp.

"Erik – mon ange – sweet one –" I panted. My nails scored across the newly healed skin of his back, putting my own brand upon him. The greatest wave of pleasure yet overcame me, and I was submerged for an eternity, floating among the stars and gripped so tightly within the vice of his arms that I could not breathe.

"Christine – I –" his hips gave a great surge into me, and I arched my back and _clenched _– heat spread within me, burning –

I returned to earth before he did, but by degrees, so I slowly became aware of the corded muscles in his neck as he continued to quake. I traced them, and he gasped in helpless rapture. His arms finally gave way, sending his full weight upon me; the waterbed heaved around us. I did not release him with my legs, and held him tightly to my breast as it slowly rocked back to stillness. "Erik," I murmured…

He was sobbing, crying without shame on me, kissing the skin above my heart. "Christine, I love you, O, Christine, thank you, Christine…"

"Shh, my love, I know…" I stroked his hair tenderly, kissing the top of his head, his sweaty forehead.

"All my life…I thought, but I never knew…I thought I would never have this – and all my fantasies have paled to this bliss – Christine, I never knew…" We remained there for more than an hour, still intimately joined and basking in our love.

I traced my fingers idly down the scratches I made upon his spine, and he ground his hips into me again. My lips curved into a smile. "Again?" I whispered.

He looked up at me, his eyes soft and gentle. "Have you the energy?"

"If you do." I watched him caress the threads of his hair splayed across my breast, the dark twining over the white, and I sighed happily.

He surveyed the waterbed ruefully. "I think it had best be somewhere else. The coverings have mostly landed on the floor, thanks to your movements, and your back would be burned by the material holding the water within it."

"_My _movements? Who was it that tore the sheet away from my hands when you wanted me to hold onto you instead of it?"

He was unrepentant, smirking at me. "I prefer your clutches. But this does not solve the…problem, and I am most loathe to remake the bed at the moment if it will only be ruined again."

"The bathing room?"

He stared at me for a moment, then, his smirk turned into a slow smile. "You've been speaking with Meg."

His tub and shower – modeled after the Greeks' – was an excellent size for such an activity. I had surprised him when we had entered the hot water by kissing my way down his body. "Christine?" he asked uncertainly.

My hands shed their virgin status in favor of exploring a far more interesting part of my husband. The water beat down upon my head, lengthening my curls and letting them float in sleek puddles on the surface. Erik had always said I was curious: he was right. Erik let his head fall back against the wall of the tub as he felt my mouth upon him. He groaned, but otherwise lay quietly, relaxing to my ministrations. At one point, I felt the hot shower droplets stop over my head, sheltered by a hand. The limb landed upon my head, requesting my attention without asking me to cease. Without saying a word, he suggested how to best please him.

He found me a bright student.

After a while, I nudged the drain a little out of the way with my foot so that the tub would not overflow. The water droplets were warm, creating a gentle interlude of sound. Trickles of water ran over my cheeks and into my mouth, a warm sweetness that could not compare to the savage heat of his body. The room grew hot and moist, and I thought that were it not for the unmistakable subtle jerking of his hips, he might have fallen asleep, so peaceful was the environment. I glanced at him once; his eyes had fallen shut, tightly clenched, and his smooth chest was heaving in enjoyment. _Mon ange…my teacher, my Erik, my husband._

He tasted bittersweet, most like unsweetened chocolate. There was that hint of sweetness, that made me crave for more in the elusive quest to find it and be satisfied. I finally lifted my head from him and wiped my mouth. The substance was pearlescent, like looking at the moon from underneath water.

There was another idea I must implement some day.

I crept over to him, water glistening from every surface of my body, and stroked his wet hair with my fingers. His eyes were half-lidded with the afterglow of his body's triumph. "You are wearying me, mon ange."

"Ah, but a way to be made weary."

He dipped his head in acknowledgement. He lifted me onto his stomach, my legs straddling him. He surveyed me. I shivered despite the heat of the water as his gaze passed from my clinging hair, to my breasts, my flat belly, and to my most secret of places. His hands languidly stroked the distances from my waist to my knees. I forced myself to take deep breaths in the humid air. "Did Meg teach you anything else?" he asked faintly, but his eyes showed that he was nevertheless interested in the answer.

I broke from my enjoyment to slap his hands away and look indignantly at him. "I'll have you know that I taught her as much as she did me!"

"Oh?" Now his expression changed subtly – a twist of the mouth, the position of the eyebrows – from sated relaxation to a challenging threat. I wondered if he could feel my body tense. If he could interpret it correctly, he would know it was not from fear. "How have you come into possession of this knowledge?"

I understood what he thought, and smiled to dispel his jealousy. I placed his large, callused hands back upon my hips, causing the fingers to stroke over the bones as water cascaded over the fingers. His face remained frozen, though he did not let go. "It was not from any man," was my reply. "It was rather from my fellow dancers – information pooled from various resources, as it were. They did not have brilliant teachers, and chose to live their lives in different occupations by night."

His body visibly relaxed beneath me, a depression of the chest and slackness of the jaw. "Understood. I'm glad. If it had been a 'patron' who did not have your best interests at heart…" My teacher looked up at me, a wry smile on his mouth. "How is it you twist my heart so easily with your innocent words, hmm?"

I shrugged – his eyes followed the movement – and leaned down for a moment to twist a lock of my hair with his. I gazed at the mingling colors (mine was slightly lighter) then let go of the twist. The water slid over his cheek, and I drank from it briefly before righting myself. "You let me, I suppose."

"And, what would you do to right this unbalance of control?"

I knew the proper response to provide the equalization, and I shivered. "To let you do whatever you wanted to me," I whispered.

He smiled as might a feral cat. He gently pushed me from him and rose. Streams of water poured from his body, and I stared with unabashed wonder. Something within me clenched, and a spiraling tremor traveled my core. My femininity called out to his obvious masculinity to complete it. Erik took no notice as he stepped from the tub, removed a washcloth from a nearby shelf, and returned. He sat cross-legged behind me. "Luckily for you," he murmured, "I would not abuse your concession."

He folded the cloth and ran it over my shoulder. I let my head fall back onto him. The cloth, gaining warm liquid with each moment, slid lower and lower. It circled a breast, and I closed my eyes and sighed against his neck. When he had cleansed my body, he trailed his fingers over me, not exploring, but marveling at the body so different than his. "I hear in my mind," he told me, "a violin so sweet it would make you weep. Regrettably, its voice sings too high for me to replicate it with my own."

"I inspire this music within you?" I asked, dumbfounded.

"Christine, look at yourself." His hand lifted the gentle curves of my breast. "Look at the way the droplets leap in tiny explosions once they touch it. Feel the softness, more downy than a robin's feather lining." Although he was trying to make me understand the elements of the solo in his head, his touch was inspiring more physical reactions in me. The pale skin he was admiring became flushed, and the dust-pink circle on the tip became pointed. I could feel his cheek move as he smiled against me, and his palm covered my breast completely. "Feel the magnificence of who you are, what you were fashioned to do," he breathed against my ear, and I couldn't help but groan.

"On second thought," he said after a pause to consider the sound, "perhaps I will take advantage of my power over you." He lifted the heavy, sodden tresses of my hair from my neck. His other hand came to mimic the first, then rose to my shoulders. "Christine, have you…learned to unlock the wonders of your body by yourself?"

I knew to what he was referring, and all I could do was manage a helpless nod. In desperation to prove I was not completely helpless, I gathered my voice in my throat and mumbled, "The dancers are not shy about satisfying themselves when their patrons do not, some of your music left me more than destitute." I knew his eyes were darkening as he considered what I had been doing while he was singing. His stomach tightened with his indrawn breath.

His mouth found the still-tender spot beneath my ear. "Show me."

In a daze, my hands found their places. I closed my eyes and let myself fall into the routine I knew my body craved. But as I did so, Erik's hands began to move over my upper body, sometimes kneading my shoulders in deep presses that made me moan, sometimes so lightly trailing over my chest that my body was wracked in premature shudders. My own fingers moved faster, and I arched into Erik, my wet body against his and my head tossing back and forth on his shoulder.

My breath came faster, little hitched gasps that seemed magnified in the humid air. Precise marking of time blurred with the subjective incline of pleasure. I knew it took longer for my body to reach its completion than the male, but half-crazed with induced lust, I did not care to rush and therefore diminish my own pleasure. My mouth was open, letting the sweet drops of water trickle down my throat. I became light-headed. "Yes, Christine," he said softly. "Make music of yourself, play yourself as I would my instrument."

He had not spoken thus far, and at the sound of the rumbling voice at my back, I began almost to sob with desire. I felt the burn in my lower body recede for those precious seconds, then –

I bloomed.

I made no sound, the cry caught in the back of my throat, but he felt my body lock and arch against him, the water rocking against his waist. As the grip of bliss released me the tiniest bit, I began to cry. "Erik, O Erik –"

The fingers of his right hand pressed deeply into my shoulders and upper back as I continued to writhe. His left hand knocked mine out of the way and he pleasured me himself as I shook. I screamed for him then, my body in spasms. Twisting, I gasped, "Kiss me, Erik –"

His mouth descended hotly upon mine. Though he withheld nothing, he listened to my body – and indeed played it! – until he knew the exact point when the current descent had finished and the next began to rise. My head cleared slowly, and my thrusts against his hand became slower and slower, though because of his refusal to cease, I could not stop completely. Embarrassment filtered through the haze in my mind. What had I just _done? _My most intimate pastimes at night had just been shamelessly revealed, and my total abandon witnessed. I was like a cat in heat, crying for someone to fill her. I looked up at him timidly.

"My dear," his voice was hoarse, "you are more beautiful than the finest violin. How could any music compare to the lovely vision with which you have blessed me?" Embarrassment turned to warm pride, and I now responded to his hand with the confidence of a woman and not a girl.

I felt him stir behind me and his eyes glittered. "With me, this time?"

As an answer, I pushed him upon his back against the side of the tub, climbing on him as before. His elbows braced against the bottom of the tub; our fingers interlaced, and he impaled me upon him. I took a sharp intake of breath and threw my head back. The water trickled over my eyelids as he moved upwards within me. Then – oh, Stars, I heard him humming beneath his breath. He knew that singing to me was my key, now, and –

I screamed in delight, and I felt him join me in paradise with a quiet groan. "You have no idea," he said through grit teeth, "how lovely you look, mon ange." He reached up behind him and increased the force of the spray; the water beat down upon every surface it could touch.

We stumbled back into the bedroom just as the first rays of the sunshine peaked through the velvet curtains of the room. Erik blearily motioned for me to shut the crack, and I did so. I fell beside him on the bed and curled into his damp side. My leg curled over his side, and my arm pulled his forehead to mine. "I love you so much, mon ange. My Erik…"

His mouth met mine in a lazy kiss. His lips brushing against my shoulder, he whispered, "I cannot imagine life without you."

"You will never have to." I fell asleep with the ghost of his music in my ears, his arms around me, and our bodies satisfied. We had passed the Point of No Return, and indeed, we never wished to return.

* * *

><p>Wow...all done.<p>

Be honest: who here had at least a few moments of their mouths watering and/or squirming in their chair? Erik = ...*scorch the sheets, steam the windows.*

Ahem. Getting control of myself like the mature authoress I am.

Supposedly.

At least, when people can see me.

Please Review!


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